Confines of Fear
by aaequitas
Summary: (slight AU; S03E08 onwards with an OC). "Yeah, I brought you here, hell, I got you stuck in this cell! But if you help your ol' pal Merle out, you keep him alive -," She pauses in her movements, a thread of hope rekindling at his words despite her frustration and anger, "well then I'll get'cha back out! Whatdya say, girlie?"
1. Prologue

**AN: ****First Walking Dead fanfic ever, thought maybe I'd give it a go! :) There are two timelines that will hopefully flow from one another. Further explanation in the next chapter, where it's needed.**

**Disclaimer: ****All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of their respective owners (AMC & Robert Kirkman). The original characters and non-canon plot are the property of myself, and I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of The Walking Dead. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

**Prologue**

_Cold is the water,  
it freezes your already cold mind.  
Already cold, cold mind.  
__And death is at your doorstep,  
__and it will steal your innocence.  
__But it will not steal your substance._

'Timshel' by Mumford And Sons

Alana can taste the small amount of warm blood spilling over her chin as her lips part with a shuddering breath. Her hands shake, grasping desperately for purchase along the frame of the upturned car. In fact her whole body is shaking despite the humid temperature.

Adrenaline? She doesn't think so. The rush has long gone, leaving her shaking and unfocused. Her eyes try to remain on the truck less than twenty metres ahead – _just get there and you can rest, just keep walking –_ but it's spinning, the whole world is twisting and throwing her off balance. Groaning, she shuts her eyes tight, grinding her teeth together. _Focus. Focusfocusfocus. _

She chalks it down to a low blood sugar level, but it hurts to try and think of when she last ate, _what _she last ate, so she's determined to ignore it. Ignore this. Ignore everything. _Get to the truck, lay down, think, process, plan. _But the pain in her leg refuses to quieten and the makeshift bandage is starting it's own trail of blood down her right leg. She feels like screaming, but that would attract unwanted attention, unwanted trouble, and instead the hot tears fall down her cheeks in silent frustration.

She doesn't want to consider the possibility of serious blood loss, however plausible it may be, because she refuses to believe her situation _can get_ _any fucking worse. _The bullet had skimmed her right thigh, and although burning like wildfire, the stream of red has slowed. She had only just realised she didn't have her semi-automatic at the junction over a kilometre from where she stands now, and her knives were long gone, _but __she kn_ew _that from the start; _all up making it nearly impossible to walk down the dark highway by herself, unarmed.

_Nearly impossible. _

She hasn't come across any biters for at least an hour now, a fact that doesn't smother the fear in the pit of her stomach, and those she had seen, she'd spotted them before they did her. But everything is catching up – _it's getting so hard to ignore_ – and her feet are faltering, breathing coming shallower. She would slap herself if she had the energy, slap herself for being so stupid, so careless, so _unprotected, so pathetic. _She can imagine the look on James' face if he caught her like this, stern and worried and cold and – _nonononono don't think dontthinkstopstopstop. _

The cry escapes her before her left hand has a chance to clasp her mouth closed, the shaking now moving to her shoulders. It's too late; too late to stop the images of his broken body in the grass, fingers outstretched. Too late to stop the sound of his screams and the smell of decaying flesh to run mayhem in her mind. She's trying to ignore it. Ignore this. Ignore everything. _Don't notice Derrick isn't here with you, don't think about having no idea where he is. Don't think about whether he's alive or dead or bitten or worse, don't think about your camp, about your group, about your _brother, _get to the truck, lay down, think, process, plan._

Derrick. Fifteen, blue eyes, brown hair. Derrick. Long fingers, toned arms, strong legs. _Derrick. _Lost, gone, separated. Armed though, she thinks, armed and most likely with Peter. Peter would look after him. Peter would make sure he's okay. _Until I get there, until I can look after my baby brother again. _Derrick. Safe, breathing, _alive_.

She nods once, shifts her weight from one foot to the other and grimaces at the pain. Her arms haven't stopped shaking, but she continues on. The truck is less than ten metres now, and the feeling of accomplishment is so strong she can almost feel the cool metal of the vehicle underneath her fingertips.

By the time she does, the moon has risen to her left and the air taken a cooler side. She pulls herself into the passenger seat with a whimper, closing the door with a small _thunk_ and automatically feeling safer. The truck tilts forward into a ditch, making sleeping in the front almost impossible. It hurts to move her right leg and her mind recoils at the idea of re-wrapping the wound, but the rational part of her says that she tend to it. However, instead she can feel the tears streaming down her face. She's quiet though, allowing the stress, pain and frustration to seep out of her though silent tears. _Oh god, Derrick. Peter. James. Sylvia. Natalie. Ben. Charles. Rebecca. _

Gone. Or dead. Or both. She allows herself a few minutes to mourn them, all of them but Derrick and Peter, because they can't be dead. They _can't_. She thinks back to the camp-site, the blood and the screaming and the desperation that clawed its way into her chest. The bandits had attacked fast and silently; slaughtering men, woman and children.

She hadn't had time to grab her things, dashing to find Derrick and Peter, their estranged uncle. She remembers finding them, gunshots, screams and her own gun recoiling in her hands, the burn of a miss-aimed bullet tearing through her leg and Peter pushing them towards their car. Then James falling on her and then _nothing_. _Nothing but black. _She woke up later with a throbbing head and a missing family, surrounded by dead bodies with single shots to the head. James was above her, squashing her into the grass and covering her from sight. It only took a second to realise he was dead.

She's convinced Peter got Derrick out of there safely. Convinced they were set up somewhere safe, most likely with the other countless men, woman and children whose bodies she hadn't identified around the camp. She tries to ignore the inconsistencies with everything that happened, the things that don't add up.

_Where were the attackers? If her camp had taken care of them...then why did they leave her? Why did they leave their tents and their possessions?_

She fancies that the thieves left in a mad rush and took care of the biters they had attracted with their gunfire, but that doesn't explain the left over items. Who in their right mind passes up on extra blankets and tents, when they had attacked for that exact purpose? Who could be set up well enough that they'd pass on extra provisions? Certainly not outsiders...right?

She uses a small amount of water from her backpack to clean her right leg, shoving the extra t-shirt she grabbed into her mouth to muffle her whimpers and clean up the running blood afterwards. Every few minutes she scouts out the window for biters and finds nothing, a welcome but uneasy sight. She places the extra-shirt in the seat beside her and tries to catalogue the items she managed to scavenge from the camp.

Washing her mouth out with a minimal amount of water, she winds down the window and spits out into the cement, taking a few minutes of baited breath to wonder if anyone, _anything_, heard her in the truck. She gets the call of an owl in return and shivering, she rolls up with window, leaving a minuscule crack at the top so she might have a better chance of hearing something lumber up the highway.

Unarmed and wounded, she's glad that the world around her is figuratively dead - in the best way possible of course.

She clambers into the back-seat of the truck where the tilt of the vehicle is less noticeable and wraps the military coloured canvas jacket around her body. She's thankful that the windows at the back at least are slightly tinted - a dark grey in the night - but still shifts down into the little crack between the seats and the drivers back, fitting uncomfortably in the cramped space. _Don't draw attention to yourself. Small and unnoticeable to both the dying and the alive, and those stuck in between. _

Her promise to plan, plan for tomorrow and getting back to Derrick is out of mind as soon as the warmth spreads through body, and although she knows she should be realistic and rational and _thinking_, exhaustion rears it's head and sleep pulls her under. _Tomorrow. She'll plan tomorrow. _

_...tomorrow..._

It's not a few hours later before voices pick up down the highway, carried by the wind, waking her slowly from her sleep. Her thoughts are groggy, slow, and she can ignore the pain in her leg easier now she realises with relief. The sounds pick up, travelling closer and closer. Obnoxious voices, accented voices, commanding voices. None that belong to anyone she knows, she realises with a sharp bout of panic.

She tries to calm herself down, but her mind goes on a rampage with images of bloody knives and leering faces. She presses down into her little space tighter, covering all her tanned skin with fabric so the contrast in colour isn't as severe. _Or at least she hopes_. She tries to remember, tries to backtrack; did she leave any blood on the car door? Anything that points to a living, breathing thing within the vehicle? Anything at all?

_Fuck._

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck._

_No._

_Godfuckingdammitno._

Her t-shirt is still in the front seat. They might have overlooked the random spots of blood on the door, the organised drops along the highway, _but her t-shirt is inside the car. One the front seat. Wet with blood and saliva. Without tinted windows and in plain sight._

She's shaking again and this time it's not from adrenaline or low blood sugar (although she's sure that's still a problem), it's raw, unadulterated fear. Her large camp had dealt with outsiders a few times. Dealt with by a single shot to the head for each one present. There is, after all, a reason they were outsiders.

She's well aware of how exactly inhumane humans have become.

There is a soft metallic tapping on the front window that freezes her blood. Her heart is beating fast, loud in her ears and her hands have clenched tight around her jacket _as if that could save her_. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, one hand covering her mouth so she doesn't scream.

_They might pass. They might pass. Quietquietquiet._

Tap. Tap. Tap.

_Oh-_

The back-seat door opposite her swings open with a bang and no warning whatsoever. She scurries back further into the metal behind her, the backpack digging painfully into her spine. Her breathing has all but stopped and her heart is pounding in her head so loud she's afraid she can't hear a word the figure in front of her says. It only takes a second of look at the shadow in front of her to discern that it's a heavily built male with a weak crop of greying hair; the moon above his left shoulder highlights one side of his profile and she can just make out a clean shaven face and a wide, toothy grin.

There's a laugh - a loud guffaw that hurts her ears - and a gesture to his left, calling for the rest of his group. He turns slightly - _blue eyes, strong shoulders _- and she catches a glimpse of the men behind him_, _a collection of at least three others.

"Well looky here boys, we's afound ourselves a camper."

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**AN: Lemme know what you guys think! Continue? Stop? Thank you for checking it out either way! :)**


	2. Chapter One

**AN: Thank to the following that followed: Freckles the Wanderer, Lilly72 and jalannas. And to RJM for reviewing; hopefully this one starts to pick up the pace a bit! Thank you for reviewing, I appreciated it :)**

**Two separate timeline explanation: ****1)** **The** _past, _**written in** _italics _**that will be at the start of every chapter, and will lead up to the prologue below. It won't be too lengthy, but has a bit of back-story that I feel is important to the OCs. 2) Then the** present**, which will be written in **normal text, **and at the second half of the chapter. It will start a few days/weeks on from the prologue, as you will soon see and is set at the mid season three finale and onwards (S03E08).**

**Thank you! :)**

**Disclaimer: Refer to the prologue.**

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**I. Trust Is A Currency  
**

_Come in from the shadows of these boot black, marching clouds  
__Because trouble falls like rain  
__And lately it's been pouring down_

"Three Tree Town" by Ben Howard

"_Is Derrick there with you?"_

_Alana glances down at her brother, sitting dejectedly on the curb near the telephone booth. A taxi flashes past and she catches a sharp glimpse of the heavy bruising underneath his blue eyes and a defeat to his shoulders from the thirteen hour flight they'd both recently endured._

"_Yeah, he's right here."_

"_How is he? How was the flight?" Peter asks, distracted._

"_Yeah, it was fine...longer than we remembered, but we tried to sleep most of it."_

"_Good, good...," His voice is scratchy from years of cigarettes, "Look, I'm sorry I can't pick you both up but I've got to take this shift, y'know? Your aunt will be here to settle you guys in and I'll see you for dinner...how's that?"_

_She grins at his guilt, finding it both endearing and amusing. "I'm nineteen, Uncle Peter, I'm sure I can catch a taxi to a house less than an hours drive away, don't worry."_

"_You never know what ca-"_

"_I have Derrick."_

"_Derrick is fifteen."_

"_And _you_ are about to be late for work."_

"_Airport fees are expens-"_

"_Peter. I have it under-control. Relax! Get to work! Say hi to Aunt Sarah for us both!"_

_She can hear the shouting on the other end of the phone, and the raised voice of her aunt in reply. She hangs up not a minute later and drags her bag to Derrick by the curb, sitting down with a groan. Her feet hurt and exhaustion kicking in double time with every passing second. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't slightly disappointed in her uncle (he'd _promised_ to be here to pick them up, they hadn't seen him in three years for chrissake), but she understood. That's all that's needed. _

"_So...taxi?" Derrick asks, yawning wide and tucking his hands deeper into his pockets as the cold wind runs over them._

"_Yeah, Peter got called up for a shift and they need the money," Alana shrugs halfheartedly, then twists her face into one of confusion, "The other worker called up with a fever and a bite mark? His next door neighbour went psycho apparently."_

_He snorts in morbid amusement distractedly, scuffing his foot on the pavement infront of him, "Whatta freak."_

"_It's not the first account either. 'Pparently it's been happening pretty much country-wide."_

_Derrick can't help the grin that spread across his face; he knocks his elbow into his sister's side and jokes, "Rabid Americans biting each other in suburbia lanes...well, 'Lana, you sure know when to pick the right times to visit the fam, huh?'_

_Alana grins back, raising a finger to point straight back to him in mock hurt, "I'll have you know, I saved you over $300 dollars in this flight! I'm sure there's one back to Australia leaving soon if you wanna leave!"_

_He laughs, standing up and stretching his long limbs to the sky with another yawn, "And miss Aunt Sarah's famous cooking? You've gotta be kidding!"_

_He bends down and picks up both of their black suitcases with ease – when did he get so strong? - and she stands up after him as they make their way slowly to the taxi rank._

_His voice is light and teasing as he calls over his shoulder, "Besides, this could be history in the making!"_

* * *

There was screaming – she knows she didn't imagine that; screams that were loud and clear and filled with terror. But now the town is silent and it makes her uneasy. When the calls for '_terrorists!_' first sounded she was relieved, the cuffs on her hands cold and unforgiving and the image of fresh air so close. But then there was gunfire, screams from women and children and a deadly silence – the terrorists had been defeated it seemed, and Alana was still left in her cell.

Now there is more. More screaming and gunfire and she's not sure if it's retaliation or another attack, but whichever, she hopes Woodbury _burns_. She hopes the Governor meets his bloody end at the edge of a knife (preferably hers though she'll be happy either way) because after all, _karma's a bitch. _

Alana grits her teeth at the memories, at her own _stupidity. _She can distinctly remember coming to Woodbury, stitched up after her camp's attack and slipping straight into the community, virtually unnoticeable. She had lied of course, straight off, because trust was a currency only few bargained with and she wasn't one of them.

She had played the lone survivor well, giving no hints to her camp's remains, to her brother, to her _life_, but she started opening up. Partly with guilt for being fed and warm whilst her brother and uncle most likely starved, and partly with hope; that perhaps she could find them and bring them back here. Woodbury after all, was _paradise._

Until you started asking questions. The thing about trust was that Alana needed it to be backed by facts, by actions, by things she understood. She started asking around for details, things that could fuel her desire to bring her family here once she found them, because that was all that she wanted. Proof that Woodbury is really what is played out to be. It wasn't though, and she found that out not a week into her stay.

She'd slipped. She'd mention a camp. _Her _camp. She didn't know where they were, if they were okay, the amount of people in it, but it didn't matter. Because she had a camp and they had a town, and in this world, if they aren't a part of your group...then they die.

They hadn't outright given the impression, but she could see the Governor starting to get frustrated when she refused to answer his questions; first in honesty and instinctual habit, then in distrust and suspicion. He had tried to guilt-trip her, then warn her (a group that large out in the open? You should bring them back to Woodbury before something happens! We can take care of them!) and then finally threaten her. It was too late by then; she was cold and like stone, well aware that she had dug herself a deep hole. So they threw her into a cell and allowed their fists to talk when their mouths got them nowhere. Not that it mattered; she stayed silent. Woodbury might not have been the salvation her and her family needed, but she wouldn't let it become their end either.

The gunfire stops abruptly, and she walks cautiously to the barred door, pressing her ear between the metal and straining to hear something, _anything._

"How many people did you _see_?"

"About seven, m-maybe more. It was dark, I-I couldn't get a clear sight."

"How many people did we _lose_?"

"They're s-still counting, men, woman and children. I-I'm not sure, really."

"Right, go talk to Andrea. Make sure she knows whose side she's on, explain what _they did. _How we were just protecting our own."

"Bu-"

"_Go."_

There is a sound of a door closing, and the voice she doesn't remember quickly leaves. Her breathing is erratic, fists curled tight around the bars of her cell.

"Governor...what do you want me to do with the prisoners?"

"Throw them in the cells with the bars," There a pause and her heart quickens at the sound of his calculated drawl, "..._I want them to watch each other die._"

There is a scuffle and a pained gasp, a choked groan and then disgusted muttering. She can hear them getting closer, footsteps both slow and lumbering, and sharp and fast. The door at the end of her hallway slams open and she scurries backwards, pushing herself as far in the corner as she can go.

The footsteps get closer until they are right outside her cell. She can see them, four men; two cuffed and bloodied and the other two standing tall and commanding. Martinez, she can recognize him, and one of his accomplices. She bites on her lip and tries her hardest to think about things other than ripping their faces off, because that wouldn't end well for anyone involved, particularly her.

She doesn't know the other two men, but one seems vaguely familiar. He's facing the other way though, pressed up against the bars of the cell opposite her as one of Martinez' henchmen fiddles with the lock. There is a bated breath, and the bloodied man goes tumbling in, landing with an angry growl on the concrete floor. The other prisoner goes to follow, favouring his right leg as he walks, but Martinez hold out a strong arm against the man's chest.

"Oh no, you two aren't going in the same cell. We aren't completely stupid," He grabs the man by his shirt, roughly dragging it to the cell opposite, "We don't have time, Adem, just open this one and let's fucking go."

_This one?_

_Shit._

Adem stands outside her cell, grinning broadly when he sees her in the corner, "Well 'ello princess, nearly forgot 'bout ye there!"

Martinez scowls, yanks the cell door open and shoves the prisoner in. The man lands with a thump by her feet, face down and facing the other way. He doesn't move, hands tied behind his back, and even from where she's sitting she can hear his pained and laboured breathing. "Don't get too cosy there, sweetheart, we'll be dealing wich'you jus' as soon as we finished with them prisoners, al'ight?"

_Alright._

They lock up, leave quickly with talks of offensive defence and the hall goes deadly quiet again. Except for the groans of the man in front of her.

The prisoner in the other cell scuttles closer to his door and before he opens his mouth, Alana already knows who it is. It's hard to mistake that wide grin and those pale blue eyes. "Hay, well if it isn't missus big mouth! Nice to see ya again, sugartits, never thought we'd be neighbours, huh!"

_Merle. _

She wants to punch him. Hurt him. Knife him and strangle him. She wants to watch the light leave his eyes and the blood pour from his mouth (she has a lot of spare time in her cell) but instead she hesitantly leans over and stubs her toe into the unnamed man's shoulder in front of her.

"He dead?"

She can hear his laboured gasps loud and clear from here so it's a small wonder Merle can't, "No, just unconscious."

Merle nods, sighs, and stands in his cell. She watches as he searches every corner, each nook and cranny with a mild sense of amusement. He's panicked, although it's slightly contained, but tired. In pain too, she can see him laying off his left hand – which doesn't help him much seeing as he only has _one_. She finds a morbid sense of satisfaction in seeing him in pain and trapped. _Oh, how the tables have turned._

"There isn't anything you can use, or anything you can _do _to get out. They have one set of keys and it looks like Adem's got 'em at the moment." She says, and her voice is oddly raspy after no use, but still with a smug tone.

Merle turns to look at her, assessing her expression before sighing loudly and sitting back down in the closest right hand corner, head leaning against the bars.

"How long you been in 'ere?"

"I think this is my thirteenth day." She snaps, anger leaking through her voice.

"He tol' everyone you hopped the wall and left with some supplies ya stole."

"I know he did."

"They believed him."

"I _knew _they would."

He analyses her for a moment, and she feels uneasy under his stare. His eyes run over her long and matted brown hair, and sunken cheeks; underfed and beaten, he can see the cuts and the scraps on her bare arms, the blood soaking up a split in her right leg. He briefly entertains the idea of trying to appear pitiful, guilty, but he can see straight away through her cold blue eyes that she wont buy it.

"Y'owe me."

"Owe you?!" Anger flares up in her so fast she's on her feet before she even realises it. Nose an inch away from her bars and lips turned up in a sneer, "How exactly do I owe you, _Merle?!"_

He licks his lips, shifting so his back is straight up against the wall and one finger pointing straight at her, "I'm the one that told the Governor there was someone on tha highway, there! I got'cha outta that truck and brought'cha back here, got you fed, stitched up, warm bed."

"For less than a week! I'm being tortured for answers I don't even have! Your people are trying to kill my _family, _and I don't even know if they're alive in the first place!" She wants to scream but knows that whoever is on guard at the front would hear in a heartbeat, so her voice is only slightly raised, sullen cheeks flushing red.

"Na, girly, that's your fault! Too big of a mouth, dug yourself a neat hole ther-"

He cuts off as the man in Alana's cell groans loudly, bringing his knees up to trying and bring his chest off the ground. Alana skits backwards, suddenly wary, bringing her hands to fists at her side.

"Lil'brother? Hey boy, you al'ight there?"

_Little brother? Jesus, there's _more_ of them._

There's a pause. "'uddup, Merle, lousy..." the man mumbles and trails off, face only have turned up from the floor. He coughs, ribs racking at the sudden movement, and blood hacks across the floor next to his face. Merle goes to shout at Alana to _do something, goddammit, _but she's already half way across the cell, untieing the man's hands and flipping him over.

His face is swollen to an unimaginable size, nose broken and one eye swollen shut. Blood is dripping from the corner of his mouth and she tips him to the side, hesitating before shoving a finger between his lips and digging out the excess blood. He weakly shoves at her, one eye fluttering and face _trying _to scowl and complain but Alana remembers her first aid course (kind of). Clear the airways.

His shoulder's curl up, and she grabs him by the back of his shirt and strains to lift him up, ignoring Merle's muttering and shouting. The unnamed man then promptly empties his stomach all over the floor and Alana is left holding unto the man as he falls unconscious again. She lays him back down, far away from the pile of blood and digested _crap_ – desperately trying to keep her own stomach down – and tilts him on his side, head supported by his arm. _Recovery position...right?_

She's not sure why she's doing it. He is, after all, related to Merle, but she couldn't handle the angry shouts coming from the brother if she _didn't_. And besides, she's not going to let a man bleed to death not a step away from her. Not even Merle's brother. That's a pitiful way to go.

Merle shreds his over-shirt, throwing it through the bars towards her. She picks it up, glancing briefly at him, and he catches her eye. He won't say thankyou, that's not how he works...but he doesn't scream as much. And she understands.

Even if she loathes him.

Alana rips up Merle's shirt, working quickly to fix up the unconscious man's cuts and the blood that was drying to his skin. She takes a moment to notice his long, brown hair and unshaven face. _He's not from Woodbury. Terrorist?_

_You're falling, Merle. From right-hand man to prisoner in the space of a night. You're _falling.

"Y'owe me."

She grits her teeth, closes her eyes in frustration. Not _again._ "I don't owe you _anything._ In fact, _you owe me! _You brought me _here, _don't pretend that's some sort of saintly act! And I'm cleaning up for _brother _for chrissake, Merle! _Shuttup!_"

He snorts, pressing his face against the bars, blue eyes flashing, "Yeah, I brought'cha here, and yeah, maybe you don'wanna be 'ere but if you help your ol' pal, Merle, you keep my baby brother alive..."

She pauses in her movements, a thread of hope rekindling at the words, despite her frustration and anger.

"...I can get'cha back out."

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**AN: Thoughts? :)**


	3. Chapter Two

**AN: Thanks to the following users that added the story to their alerts list: Fall-Back-Down, Nopride4531, Paper Grenade, TearsofTheForgotten and saku-lee! And a special thank you to those that reviewed: Lilly72, TearsOfTheForgotten, Graceyn and saku-lee!**

**Lilly72: Glad you're enjoying it! You guys are what keep me writing! :)**

**Graceyn: Thank you! :) Hopefully I'll update _at least_ once a week, with college and work its hard to juggle everything but that's definitely my goal! :)**

**Disclaimer: Refer to the prologue. **

* * *

**II. Intentions**

_But you rip it from my hands_**_  
_**_And you swear it's all gone_**_  
_**_And you rip out all I have_**_  
_**_Just to say that you've won_

"I Gave You All" by Mumford and Sons

_Alana wraps the blanket closer around her body, blowing the steam from the cup of cocoa she has cradled in her hands. She looks up at to the sound of the porch door swinging open to see Peter cautiously stepping unto the wooden steps outside._

"_'Lana," he nods in greeting and she shifts over on the outdoor couch to allow him some space next to her, "How're you feeling? Y'know I never really got to talk to you last night...or today, really."_

_She shrugs, taking a sip of the hot chocolate and a moment to gather her thoughts. She decides instead to ignore the question and answer with that he's really looking for, "Mum's really angry at you."_

_He lets out a breathy laugh, looking over the front yard with careful eyes. Her mother and uncle didn't look anything alike, unlike Alana and her own brothers. Peter had a strong jaw-line, small ears and a nose slightly too large for his green eyes; Linda, her mother, had a thick crop of dirty blonde hair and green eyes too young for her tight mouth – something that Uncle Peter used to say was because of her husband._

_But they didn't talk about Dad anymore. Not since he left and her mother blamed her uncle for reasons no-one concerned the children over. _

"_When isn't she?" He shakes his head, a thick set of curly brown hair spilling over the tops of his ears, "How's Logan though?"_

_She thinks of her older brother; broad shoulders, calloused hands, constantly tired, drawn and concerned about every little matter that doesn't concern him. He's only three years older than her, the same age difference between herself and Derrick, but he's always been on his own; always towering over them both and far, far too wise for his age. He had to step up when Dad left, she thinks, they all did._

"_Fine, he's studying at the moment though. Real busy."_

"_Yes, that's right. What was it? Biochemistry?"_

_She grins, proud of her brother for reasons she isn't totally sure about, "Yeah, he got that scholarship, 'member? Wants to get to England as soon as possible, I reckon; that's why he didn't come visit with me an' Derrick."_

"_Smart boy" Peter laughs, and they sink into silence, watching over the front yard as if it suddenly held a faint amount of interest. She can feel the stress coming from him, in his tense shoulders and his tired face, but she doesn't say anything. Derrick always says she's _too _observant; jumps to conclusions too fast. Alana doesn't even know if there is anything wrong with that. _

"_I'm going to have to take Sarah into town tomorrow, get her to see a doctor." There it is. The real reason he came out, the build-up of stress and concern that's been emitting from him the past two days. Her aunt had been slowly deteriorating over the past few days, a fact that hadn't escaped the rest of the household._

"_She not getting any better?"  
_

"_Nah, her fever just keeps getting higher. Now she's complaining of aches in her bones."_

"_Try a hospital? You might be able to get in faster?"_

_He shakes his head, "Just the opposite: I rang up Marty from down the road, the lad that works part-time as a paramedic. He says the hospital is teeming with people asking for help. Reckon my best bet is to see Dr. Owens – he's always in the clinic, might be able to help."_

"_...The people at the hospital, all bite-marks?"_

"_Some scratches, but yeah," He looks at her, fully in the eye, trying to communicate just how _serious _it was getting, "I want you to lock the doors when I leave, just in case. Don't leave the house and don't let people in. I don't trust this."_

"_Seriously? Peter, you can't possible think it's that ser-"_

"_That just it, _we don't know. _It's just a precaution, please. Get Derrick inside, organize dinner for us all or something, just _don't leave the house. _Okay?"_

"_...okay."_

* * *

Daryl.

His name is Daryl.

She's glad he finally snapped and told her because calling him "_Merle's liddol baby brother_", was starting to get more of a hassle than it was worth.

He's sitting opposite her, leaning against the wall with his chin slightly raised, one hand limp in his lap and legs kicked out. He's in pain, she can see it, _hell, everyone can see that, _but he hasn't made a mention of it since he gained full consciousness. His face is cleaner now, though still scrunched up in frustration and pent up anger, and hair long, dark and greasy. He's only been a prisoner for less than a day and she's certain he already looks worse than herself.

_Merle's falling and Daryl's dying and she's injured and this is her escape team. _

Daryl briefly spoke to Merle – a heated discussion on _what the fuck are you doing with that psycho_, and _what the fuck are you doing with that good-fer-nothing cop,_ and Alana finds that the youngest Dixon is practically a stranger to his older brother. She's not sure what to make of that. He's different to the man in the opposite cell, both physically and mentally; but she's not overly sure if it's a good or a bad thing.

Don't get her wrong, she wants to kill Merle, but she also trusts him to a degree. He might get her ass out and then high-tail it away with his brother, but he'd get her out. He can't afford not to – she's the one with medical experience and he's the one with a wounded brother. He can't coddle and kill at the same time, no matter how great the man _might be. _

She'll work with Merle now, with the freedom such a powerful idea, but it was strictly business. If, by certain chance, she comes across him later on in life and just so _happens_ to place a knife between his eyes, well then she'll say_ debts are paid_ and continue on. He _is _what got her here in the first place, and then has the audacity to claim it as a great action on his behalf. _Jesus Christ._

If Merle manages to leave Woodbury, then she will too, but with perhaps only his protection until they find an abandoned settlement, fix up his brother to a small degree and part ways. Which is exactly what's she's planning on. She needs to find Derrick and Peter and get as far away from the Governor and Woodbury as she possibly can. _As soon as she possibly can._

Daryl, though, is a complete wildcard.

Her stomach growls loudly, and she slaps her hand over it, cursing. It's only when she removes her hand again that she realises she's starting to shake. She places her palms on either side of her and pushes herself straighter against the wall with a quiet groan. Merle mutters something along the lines of _shuddup girl, I'm thinking_ but she ignores him, as she always does. Low blood sugar, she thinks, when did she last eat?

Daryl seems to have the same question, calling out from opposite her in a raspy voice that she realises she hasn't fully heard before despite the long night they had shared, both pained and strained, "Didn't'chya eat with 'he rest o' us?"

Merle goes quiet in the cell opposite them, and she wonders if Daryl notices. He doesn't seem to, staring at her; analysing. He's trying to understand her, she reckons, see where she lies because right now she's that cold bitch giving his brother tight-lipped sneers and ignoring them both like dirt under her shoe. Except for when she isn't, and that's when he's half-conscious and half-aware of the soft fingertips brushing his hair from his eyes and wiping his mouth after he empties his stomach (something he will never admit out loud). The two girls are one and the same, but he can't manage to merge them, not for the life of him.

Alana tenses under his gaze, refusing the urge to glance at Merle. Breakfast. He's talking about the breakfast of cold porridge and unspoken deals, that the guard had brought in, no more than five hours ago by estimation. She doesn't think he caught her, but she wasn't overly sure. It was a test, and she wonders if this is too.

When they'd first brought in breakfast she was beyond ecstatic, having not eaten since lunch the previous day; ecstatic all the way until she caught Merle's eye and he was watching her. She knew what he seemed to say then, and was livid. But she did anyway, because it was a _test_ and she needed to pass to _get out._

_"Yeah, I brought'cha here, and yeah, maybe you don'wanna be 'ere but if you help your ol' pal, Merle, you keep my baby brother alive...I can get'cha back out."_

So she'd turned her back on Daryl, keeping her hands in plain sight of his older brother and spooned three-quarters of her breakfast into her cell mate's bowl. Merle nodded once when she caught his eye, closer to a thankful, further away from a scream – a balance she could handle. She'd passed the bowl to Daryl, who in his half-conscious and half-asleep state (he had refused to sleep the night before, trying to stay constantly alert) had taken it with a breathy and weak, _"Thanks"_ and sat in her corner with a measly breakfast and a painful stomach.

But Daryl did need it, _does need it._ He's been shaking all night, despite the warmer temperature, and his face slowly fading and losing colour. Merle wouldn't outwardly say he was worried, but Alana knew better. He was more accustomed to wounds you heal with a bandage and gritted teeth, not infections that attack from the inside and slowly steal your strength. Not for the first time, she wonders how he got so _sick for chrissake. Perhaps it was the cut along his abdomen, or the jagged hole on his shoulder. _

She shrugs, pretending ignorance, "Obviously wasn't enough."

Daryl doesn't nod, doesn't give any acknowledgement that he heard her except for the tightening of his scowl, and his eyes flicker to Merle for a nanosecond - s_o he's catching on...- _but when he looks back to her it's the same blue eyes she's slowly becoming familiar with.

"How long ya been in 'ere?"

"Long enough."

He snorts then, and it almost makes her jump in surprise, "You gotta name a' least?"

"'m Alana."

"_Alana_", Daryl runs the name through his teeth and throat, and she finds herself shocked at how odd it sounds in his harsh accent, realising with a start that it's the first time either of the Dixon brothers had spoken her name out loud in their rough drawl. "Who did'chya kill to end up in 'ere?"

"I didn't kill anyone."

"Oh?"

"I trusted the wrong people," the words taste sour in her mouth, _pitiful_, "and by the time I figured it out, was too late."

He nods once, scrutinizing her, and then turns to Merle with a glare and reproachful look, "Yeah, seems like that's happenin' a lot lately."

Merle's back is facing them, but even without a view he's heard enough to know that the conversation has unexpectedly turned to him. He lifts up his injured but still-there hand and salutes them both with a finger and a threatening remark to his _'dear little brother'_.

Daryl snorts, again, - an action she finds he's being doing a lot lately with the lack of energy to muster up a reply – and tightens his scowl as he looks back at Alana, "You gotta camp?"

She stiffens defensively and snaps, "None o'ya business."

He drawls out, peering at her through his frown, "Been in 'ere for wha'? Two weeks? Aint nobody came to getcha so far has m'thinking you aint got a camp t'run to."

"_What's it to you?"_

Daryl leans forward, lip pulling up into a sneer, "Ah dunno what you an' Merle are cooking up, but ch'ya ain't coming back to the prison with us. _We don't know you_."

Part of her is appalled that he doesn't trust her still, _perhaps even hurt_, because who the fuck wiped the sweat from his forehead? Who the fuck scooped the vomit from his mouth so he didn't choke? Who the fuck bandaged his wounds, kept his fever down and made a _pact _with his brother to get his lazy ass out? Who is also kept prisoner against her will, by the same people entrapping him?

_Her._

The other part of her is instead appalled that he would think she even had the thought to follow them to the prison they called camp. She had her own people to think about. The rag-tag survivors from the bandit attack that she's fairly certain Peter would have collected and organized _with Derrick. _

She might never be able to see her mother or Logan again, might never be able to visit Chelsea and Sam, her childhood best friends. _She might never see the shores of her country again, but she'll find her little brother if it's the last thing she does. _

"She aint going to the prison, an' neither are we, brother. We're getting' out, pooling th'resources 'nd splitting up. Getting as far away from the Governor as we possibly can" Merle's voice calls out, the tone suggesting that it was written in stone; it seemed Merle was about as keen to see his little brother's camp as she was.

"I ain't leaving 'em to be slaughtered, Merle." Daryl's voice takes on a darker tone, and not for the first time since their short imprisonment Alana is feeling completely ignored, and she guesses it probably wont be the last. She'd rather be a fly on the wall than apart of a Dixon argument though.

"When are you gonna gettit, boy? They don' care about'chya and they won't ever will! Ah don't see 'em breaking down the door to getcha, huh? Haven't even heard a gunshot since las' night! Your precious cop and tha' filthy nigga are _long gone, _back t' tha' prison weaving daisy chains an' bakin' cakes! Ain't nobody lookin' out for your sorry ass bu' me, little brother!"

"They aint here 'cause _your _camp fucking attacked 'em! We wouldn't even be here if you didn't steal Glen 'n' Maggie an' beat 'em!"

Daryl's face is oddly red, flushed in anger and frustration while Merle has barely blinked at their shouting, both men's voice raising until she's panicking that the guard at the end of the hallway can hear them.

"_SHUT. UP!"_

They both turn simultaneously, remembering her presence and glaring at her is if it's _Alana's fault they're fucked six ways to Sunday, "_Just...shut up. Look, you can work out whatever fucking issues you two have _later on_, right now we need to concentrate on _getting out-"_

She turns to Daryl, fighting the urge to snap at him, "-or there isn't going to be a prison to get back to. I'm not coming with you, that's my_ last intention. _I have shit to get done too, I have people to _find. My camp. _But whether or not you and Merle are going back to yours is up to you-"

She shifts her attention to Merle now, who is currently leaning against the bars of his cell with an almost bored face, "-and a discussion we have outside these walls. Do you understand?"

"Readin' you loud and clear, dollface", Merle's lips turn up into a half-amused smirk.

Daryl just nods once.

And Alana slumps back against the wall, resigning to the silence of the dark cells.

By the time Merle has formulated an idea Alana is half asleep in the corner, curled up in a ball and gnawing on the inside of her cheeks, tasting blood every so often, and Daryl was well and truly agitated, one foot tapping on the concrete as if he could kick himself a hole out the side of the cell.

Merle explains in a low, excited voice, as if it wasn't his life he was playing with – a trait she had found he possessed with pride - and she finds herself leaning closer and closer to the bars separating them in anticipation.

_This might actually work._

But of course, it never does. Martinez comes it sometime later, playing on their nerves and hope, and they really shouldn't be surprised. They had spent the night and a fair amount of the morning sitting in a numb state of fear because _where the hell was the Governor? _Why were they taking so long to get rid of Merle and Daryl? Why hadn't they once come in to check on them? To taunt them? To destroy their pride and hope? The Dixon brothers had spent the night and a fair amount of the morning wondering which second the door would burst open and paint the floors with their blood. It was a feeling neither man wanted to admit to, but they couldn't hide from it either.

Martinez knocks Merle out cold with the back of his gun through the bars and the cocks it to aim straight between Daryl's eyes, who had jumped up, painfully limping and fuelled with anger to stretch out and try to grab the man's jacket through the bars.

"Back down Dixon. Jus' wanna little friendly chat with Merle here," Daryl takes a step backwards, fists still clenched and breathing heavy – _but swaying, swaying on his feet and unsteady -, "_No need to get your panties in a twist."

Now Alana isn't stupid. Martinez carrying a gun? Not only is that slightly worrying, but she knows that the 'friendly chat' between Merle and whoever will most likely end in bloodshed. Merle's blood, specifically. Besides, what could they possibly gain from interrogating Merle? He'd already grudgingly later on explained to Alana what had _exactly _happened, with the kidnapping of two member's of Daryl's group, with the torture of them which ended up in Daryl and the leader of his group to come and save them. But Daryl had been captured, pitted against his brother, and his rescue group either dead or scared off in a harsh gunfight that silenced a few of Woodbury's citizens. And now he was here, and the Governor had information on his group.

She would pity Daryl and his prison group if she had any energy to care, but right now she really doesn't. She does, however, care when a life of the integral part of their own escape group is threatened, which leads her to here, standing not a step away from Martinez but completely unnoticed as he points his gun at Daryl.

_Plan B, right? Always a Plan B._

It only takes a second for her wrap her arms around the man's neck– fumbling for a moment and jumping when he involuntarily squeezes the trigger of the gun – but she holds him tight against the bars, shoulder blades gritting under the exertion and pain.

"Daryl? _Daryl?! _You okay?!"

He moves beside her, grunts in response and reaches out to snatch the gun from Martinez's left hand, "Mh fine. Hold 'im still!"

She pants, pulling the man's neck closer to the bars and desperately trying to ignore his heart beating underneath her fingertips because _holy shit she's strangling someone to death. _As much as she tries to ignore it, _she can feel it_, the fast pulse under her palm and the blood rushing through his neck.

Daryl leans against the bars for strength or a better aim, she isn't sure which, and aims the butt of the gun right for Martinez's head. She opens her mouth to voice a complaint but the man in her grasp suddenly goes limp and she stumbles back from the lack of pressure on her hands.

"Why didn't you _shoot_ him?!"

"Wha'?! And attract more men?!"

"He's already shot once! If anyone close enough was going to be attracted, _they already would be! _We should rid of as much men as we can so they don't follow us!"

"Wha' we _should do_, is use the bullets to open this fuckin' door 'cause I aint seeing no keys on him!"

He doesn't wait for a response - for a moment she's grateful because she doesn't actually have one – and aims the gun at the lock, only hesitating for a second before firing.

"_C'mon!_"

He does the same to Merle's cell and the panic is building up so high in her it's getting harder and harder to breath. She stops in the middle of the hallway, keeping watch as Daryl grabs his brother and tries to shake him awake. On one hand she's shaking, convinced they are about to be caught and thrown back in and J_esus Merle, hurry up and wake up! _and she's aware that she could leave; she almost entertains the idea, of just turning, running. Getting out before anyone even notices, before Daryl and Merle even notice.

The thought of it automatically gets banished from her head as she sees Daryl struggling to pick up his brother, desperately grabbing at his shoulders with his hands. Daryl's well aware of the dangers – they'll all die if Merle can't get out, but he won't leave his brother. Not now, not ever again. So Alana runs forward, grabbing Merle's right arm and throwing it over her shoulder, legs straining and almost buckling under the man's weight as she helps him up.

Daryl looks at her for a moment, as if confused that she's still here, still helping. She almost is too, but they don't have time for confusion so she grunts out a strained, "I can't shoot for shit, you're gonna hafta cover us. I'll try 'n' carry him for most of the way, but I'm gonna need your help."

Something clouds in his eyes, appreciation? Gratitude? An _apology? _She doesn't know, she _doesn't care she just wants outoutoutout – _and he nods sharply, grabbing Merle's left arm and together they heave him down the hallway, praying simultaneously that no-one rounds the corner.

_An injured woman that can't shoot, a man so sick he's running a fever and can barely walk straight, but is somehow supposed to cover them, and another man, the only one that actually knows the best way out of Woodbury -unconscious – and strung between the two. _

She'd be lieing if she said she wasn't completely freaking the fuck out, and with a small, quick glance to Daryl, it seemed like the usually stoic man was also starting to panic; Merle slipping through their grasp slightly as they heave him down the corridor.

_Please don't let there be anyone coming, anyone to see us, anyone to stop us. Pleasepleasepleaseplease._

* * *

**AN: So I was kind of iffy with the breakout scene, but the next chapter will be slightly more intense? I guess? I never know the emotions I give off in writing so lemme know if it's hitting it's desired mark, and whether or not that chapter is as much of a fail as I feel that it is! :) **_  
_


	4. Chapter Three

**AN: Thank you so much to the following who followed: Firegirlchi, icantseeyourstar, RedLil, kyri0sity. Plus to those who favourite-d: RedLil, kyri0sity, lucylu0508**

**First of all, so sorry for the late update! I don't want to make excuses, but things have been very busy on my end! I'm going to try and get back to my once a week updating, but I'm so sorry! :(**

**Disclaimer: Refer to the prologue.**

* * *

**III. Red On Grey**

_Run boy run! This ride is a journey to-.  
Run boy run! The secret inside of you.  
Run boy run! This race is a prophecy.  
Run boy run! And disappear in the trees._

"Run Boy, Run" by Woodkid

_Her body is falling numb from the cold air sifting into the truck. Peter is beside her, one hand on the steering wheel and the other playing with the cigarette between his teeth as they wait for the line of cars ahead of them to start moving. Alana would ask him to close the window, arms starting to shiver, but the simple action of her uncle smoking is worrying enough to silence her. She wasn't aware that he smoked, not now or ever, but she doesn't comment on it. Not that, or the red-rimmed eyes and tracks of tears down his cheek._

_Or the missing presence of her aunt._

_Derrick, from the back-seat, is smart enough not to mention anything either, but that hasn't stopped the silent tears of either Hardewick sibling. They hadn't known their aunt long - the woman Peter had married when both Alana and Derrick where in their early teens – but it was hard _not to _love Sarah, with her easy smiles and round, rather nurturing figure._

_Their bodies were falling as emotionally numb as the cold air had made their arms. _

_It was hard to believe it was real. All of it. Any of it. It didn't make sense, and although Peter had mentioned attacks around the country...this seems impossible. A single effect motion; the cause never occurred. It was as if someone had deleted the events leading up to this, and suddenly here they were; cut and paste, straight in the middle of an apocalypse._

_Alana refuses to call it an apocalypse though. Apocalypse means the end, and Alana hasn't even reached the start. _It just wasn't possible.

"_We need to find James, maybe even meet up with Charles and Yolanda..." Their uncle muses out loud, speaking for the first time since he had returned a few hours ago and ordered them with a cracking voice into the truck._

_Alana shoots Derrick a quick look, trying not to notice the fear in her little brother's eyes, and returns a small smile he had mustered up for her._

"_James? The army sergeant?" _

_Peter lets out a breath, not exactly an amused snort, but not _nothing _either, "James, a sergeant? Man could barely lead himself out of his tent, let alone a squad...Charles Bennet was our sergeant, me and James were just privates."_

_Peter never really mentioned his army background, but then again, it wasn't something unnoticeable. The man had army training bred into him from a young age, the first son Jackson Renshaw brought into the world, and the one sculptured to take over his own army history. _

_It's this side of the family, their uncles and aunts and cousins, that Derrick and Alana came to the United States to visit, but it seemed that fate plays a cruel hand. _

"_Where abouts are they? James 'nd Charles?" Alana asks, tearing herself out of her thoughts._

"_Nashville, last I checked," he glanced at the slightly confused expressions on his niece and nephew and re-iterated, "Tennessee; it's about a 6 hours drive to them, then another 4 hours to Robert's house in Atlanta."_

_Robert, their younger and more academic uncle, with the soft wife Natasha and her son Timothy from another marriage. Their own marriage had produced a beautiful boy and girl, but Laura had passed soon after birth from organ failure, and Robert Jnr was a sickly child. Alana can't remember meeting either of them in person, but they spoke often through the phone, when her own mother sucked up her own pride and phoned her family across the waters. _

_Derrick groans from the back-seat, "Why don't we meet halfway? Why are Robb 'n' Tash staying down there, all the way in Georgia?"_

_Peter's lips turn into a thin line, "The CDC; They're ordering everyone to either the military bases or there. Robert's a brain surgeon, Natasha rang up while I was in town and said they're being pulled six ways to Sunday – Robb's been called to the Centre and Natasha's going sick with worry with the little boys."_

_Alana observes him for a while, his tight fists clenched on the steering wheel with a silent determination, "You don't like it, d'you? The CDC? You don't think it's a good idea."_

_By the end of her comment, her tone has turned from a question into a statement, and Peter doesn't disagree. _

"_I love my brother, but he's an idiot if I'd ever seen one," He takes a moment to lick his lips, butting the cigarette out of the window and finally rolling it back up, "I'm no scientist, but these people...they're not going to be cured. Marty transferred heaps of people to the hospital and said himself; there isn't anything to be done..."_

"_Your aunt -" He breaks off suddenly with a pained grasp of air that surprises both Alana and Derrick. They're silent as they hear his breathing grow erratic and then slow, oddly loud in the vehicle._

"_Robert...Robert wants to save them, but it's not going to happen...at least not now, not when it's our best chance to leave the cities; head north, out into the open."_

"_That's the plan? Get Rob, 'Tash and everyone from Nashville and head out?" Alana murmurs._

"_No," Derrick half shouts from the back, sticking his head in the opening and staring at them both in fear, "No, we head south! Get to the dock if the airports are closed – 'Lana, we _need to get home! _Mum 'n' Logan are over there, back home, we have no idea what's going on!"_

_Alana is silent, shaking because she's wrong. This is the apocalypse and she's stuck millions of kilometres from home, her voice is wavering, not at all as strong as she wants it to be as she answers, "We stay with Peter, we find James, Charles, Yolanda, Rob and the others and then we find a way home. I promise, Derrick, we'll get back. But now we don't even know if it's hit there, we don't know _anything_."_

* * *

It's kind of odd how time seems to blur and slow down, even stop. How the past and future vanish until there is absolutely nothing but the very instant, a simple start and finish motion. Her blood is pumping, fast, hard and thick in her veins, and she can't feel her wounds; only the thick weight of her leg that refused to bend properly – as if her mind in some rational, deeply hidden thought, understood that now wasn't the time to appreciate her wounds, and blocked out the fire-like burn.

Merle is heavy in her arms, her shoulders protesting under his dead weight, his head lolling around and feet dragging on the ground. Daryl is breathing heavily on the other side of his brother, one hand tight on Martinez's gun, and face paling with every step. The light sifting through the tiny window at their backs is a slight and warm white-yellow – she estimates at a late lunchtime and curses under her breath.

_Broad daylight – you'vegottobefuckingkiddingme._

It takes a lifetime to reach the door at the end of the hallway – she almost tripped over Martinez's unconscious body, fingers itching to rip the gun from Daryl's fingers and end his breathing herself. On one hand, she's shocked at the change in her thirst for blood; Martinez never walked through her cell door with a heavy fist and a cruel tongue. But he never got her out either, preferring a blind eye to her cries.

But on the other hand, she's completely numb.

And she's not sure which she prefers.

"Hold 'im still," Daryl grunts heavily, shifting the weight of Merle solely unto her shoulders and creeping silently towards the door. She's less than three steps away, leaning against the wall with Merle _leaning against her_, crushing her ribs, but even so, she's thankful for the grim determination on Daryl's face, and the gun resting tightly in his palms as he slowly, and painfully, opens the door.

There's a unanimous sigh of relief between the two of them when Daryl nods once, but there's a chill in her bones when she realises that no-one in Woodbury seems surprised of the lone gun shot they had sounded.

_What exactly was Martinez's intent, down in the cells? No keys and a loaded gun._

She glances momentarily at Daryl, pushing off of the wall and stumbling towards the door with gritted teeth. _Which one of us was not meant to live the night?_

They push on through the door and find themselves in a spacious room with open-floor living and a large rectangular table in the middle. She can see the tracks on the floor from where the table was dragged into the room, and the cigarette ash and buds littering the musty cloth.

Voices filter in from down the hallway and her blood runs cold. They all freeze just outside the door, and it takes a few seconds before she realises she isn't breathing. There is another few tense moments before Daryl takes a step forward and lets out a slow whisper; an odd sound with his rough voice, "Jus' sit Merle down 'ere".

They shuffle to the right, keeping their backs to the wall and slowly she slides Merle down, arms straining to keep his weight from falling too fast – keeping the sound from throwing them back into the cells, keeping cold metal from reducing three breathing bodies to only two, _or less. _

Daryl crosses the room and she tries not to notice the sheen of cold sweat that has broken on his forehead. He's not staggering though, a notion she finds helps her panic. Alana takes the time to glance around the room, fear keeping her feet by Merle's side but eyes tracing over the layout of the building. She skims over the various documents stapled to pin-boards, banners and signs littering the walls in a half-assed attempt at normalcy.

_City of Woodbury Police Department, _

_505 Howard Road, Woodbury, GA 30276_

_established 1860. _**(1)**

So she's been holed up in the cell of a police station – the thought really shouldn't surprise her; how many places in a town possess cold concrete cells? Yet the thought is absurd; when she was first taken she had been knocked out cold with a friendly smile and a stealthy hand over her drink, away from public eye and then awoke to find her hands cuffed and life threatened. To find herself in a centre where authority figures strove to ensure the safety of the public, yet here beaten by crazed men obsessed with keeping power in the very place that drunken people where held overnight in a much, _much_ simpler time. There's an odd taste in her mouth and she's not sure if it's the now unfamiliar sensation of amusement or disgust.

Although, was it simpler back then? _Honestly? _At least she knows who the enemies are now, who she can't trust at all.

Everyone but herself.

Derrick excluded.

_Derrick._

Daryl reaches the far corner of the room and she finds herself holding her breath as he leans forward on one foot, keeping the gun closer and peering around the side. She subconsciously grabs Merle's shirt in one hand and steps closer to his unconscious body, as if will itself would give her strength to carry him at a moment's notice. Daryl stills, and even from this distance she can see his legs lock up; he moves one of his fists slowly and uncurls his fingers to show her.

_Three._

_Three hostiles._

Daryl doesn't rush back, so she guesses they're either far enough away to be harmless, or distracted enough not to notice that Martinez still hadn't returned. She gets a jolt of fear at the thought; how soon will Martinez wake up?_  
_

Daryl skirts around the large table in the middle, slowly picking up papers and moving them; searching for keys, or maps, or weapons, or _anything. _He's only a few steps away when the voices pick up again.

"Where the 'ell is Martinez, man? He's takin' forever."

She recognizes Adem's voice almost immediately, but she can't hear the responses from the other two, fear blurring out everything but Merle, Daryl and herself. There's footsteps, echoing down the dark corridors, but all she sees is Daryl stretching out to grab Merle's other side, and them both grunting under his weight. Panic sets in and her feet are shaking, but her mind works far more quickly than her eyes and she remembers the small door to their far right, away from the steps, away from the open room, and long corridor.

"Over there!" She whispers, tugging sharply at the unconscious man between her and Daryl and they stumble slightly, before regaining balance and rushing to the door as quietly as they can. She doesn't consider the possibility that the door is locked, or barred, or what lies beyond, but she stretches out to it, fingers long and shaking.

The doorknob turns and they fall in, barely glancing at the long corridor inside. She lands awkwardly on one leg, twisting and slamming into the wall to her left, and Daryl follows after, pulling the door closed. It's a miracle it doesn't make a sound, and they tumble to the floor, hiding under the fogged panel that the door they passed through holds at chest level. Merle is between them, half sitting on Daryl and one leg thrown over Alana's ankles. She doesn't dare move, listening to the voices come closer and closer until they reach the open room they were standing in just seconds before.

"Joey, go see what the fucks taking 'im so long, we need to get the fuck outta here," Adem slurs, and she's not sure if it's the drink she can hear him place on the table, or his normal drawl that makes him sound completely drunk. There's shuffling, a door opening and a chair getting dragged roughly across the floor.

Her heart is beating hard against her chest, blood pumping fast and pricking at her fingertips. What's going to happen when they find Martinez knocked out? How are they going to get away now?

"Colby, go check if Lucas is finished in th' armoury."

"Go check your fucking self."

There's a heavy pause, then the oddly deafening click of a gun.

"_Go check if Lucas is finished. _I'm not gonna ask twice."

She can't breath. The only other door in that room led to the one they were hiding behind; not only is 'Joey' going to find Martinez unconscious, but now 'Colby' is going to find the culprits here, cowering. And Lucas, whoever that is, is somewhere in this corridor.

_Fuck._

She moves before she even knows exactly what she's doing, barely registering Daryl's tight hold on his gun and the furious whisper that rips from his lips at her. She moves, heart pounding, towards the door, fingers outstretched to grab the handle and keeping crouched to hide under the panel above her head.

She manages to grab the doorknob just as Colby's shadowed figure reaches the door, and not a millisecond after her fingers touch the cold metal can she feel the pull of it on the other side. Her arm strains to reverse the pull of it, keep it locked straight and hard against the door. She bites down on her lip and tastes blood, palm going sweaty and slowly slipping, but she keeps it firmly pressed down and inwards.

There's a second of confusion on the other side, before Colby stops and lifts his hand from his side – the pressure on the doorknob automatically relieved on her arms – and turns to Adem. "It's locked, Lucas probably went out the other door...met up with Ethan."

"Probably gone to th' fucking meetin' like we should be right now!"

She rests her head on the door, gasping for breath and her heart pumps through her head loud and fast. She can hear Daryl let out a low breath of relief, and then she freezes up again at the sound of another man shouting.

"They're gone! They're all fucking gone!"

They hear Joey rip open the door, and even from where they are sitting they can hear his heavy breathing. They can only guess he's holding up Martinez with one arm, eyes wide and face pale. "They shot open the door, they've fucking disappeared!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?!"

"The prisoners, they've escaped! He was knocked out, they took his gun!"

There's a heavy pause filled with panicked breathing

"Colby, check th' cafeteria, there's an unarmed exit in the kitchen,_ shoot t' kill_," Adem's voice is loud, harsh and commanding, and they listen to Colby's footsteps running. Even so, she can hear the thin vein of panic leaking into Adem's voice, "See if Carla an' Amy are still at the front, Joey, get 'em out of range. Leave Martinez in the front offices now, we don't want to hand 'em a hostage."

"What about the armoury? I'd go straight for the weapons!"

"Lucas was in there, he locked up before he cleared out – just go take care of of the girls, alrigh'?!"

There's another set of footsteps running off, and a moment of silence before they can hear Adem let out a growl of exasperation and follow after Colby, who had started shouting loudly and indistinctly.

"_Shit."_

She moves closer to Daryl and Merle, breathing heavily and mind running fast. She glances down the lit up corridor and notices only three doors, two to her immediate right, a few metres apart – both leading into the armoury on her guess - and the other straight ahead, and the end of the corridor, the natural light filtering in from the window. She nods to herself once, then turns to Daryl.

"Okay, I need you to stay here with Merle. I'm going to check out the armoury."

"Nah, we gotta outta here, the doors righ' fuckin' there." Daryl whispers back, struggling to stand up and pull his brother with him, as Alana shuffles back a step and shakes her head.

"We go out that door, we're gonna have that guy, Lucas, coming straight after us. Plus, we need bullets, weapons; we're not gonna last five minutes outside those walls with only your gun and a hundred biters on our ass."

"Why don'-"

She shakes her head at his protest, "I need you here to stay with Merle; if he wakes up, I can't keep him quiet, _I need you to do that."_

Daryl grits his teeth, curling his fist into Merle's shirt and taking a breath as if trusting Alana is physically paining him. She understands, although she finds the action annoying.

"So wha', you reckon ya can get rid of that guy? By yaself?"

_Can you kill a man? _

She takes a shaky breath, refusing to meet Daryl's eye, "Just wait here. I'll be back in a moment", before turning on her heel, still crouching, and reaching for the door ahead of her. The metal is cool, just like the door next to it, only this one holds a man most likely armed and dangerous. This is walking into the battle, not skirting past one.

She slowly opens the door, feeling a tinge of relief when the hinges move without a protest and a sound. Alana peers in slowly, inching closer when there isn't even a hint of a figure in sight. The walls are packed with different guns, benches lined with cases and ammunition. She can slowly make out the outline of a large cupboard in the corner, and subconsciously prays for a backpack within it's walls.

She takes a step forward, stretching up so she standing fully in the doorway, feet turned towards her destination and heavy with anticipation. There's a sound behind her, so soft that if she hadn't already been holding her breath she would have missed it.

"_Be careful"_

She makes no movement to say that she's heard, saving them both the inevitable embarrassment. Alana doesn't take sentiment from it, either way. _Business deal. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Don't die, that will mess up our deal quite badly. Please and thank-you. _

She closes the door behind her without a glance backwards, and waits a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room, in contrast with the bright corridor. A faint sound of music reaches her and she tries to find the source, guessing it to be behind the island wall in the middle of the room.

Alana slowly walks to the other side of the room, sticking to the benches and keeping a catalogue of the valuable items she sees. Her hand reaches out for a large knife she laid eyes on and just as her hand hovers over the metal, the music stops.

There's a curse, a sounds of pockets shuffling and then the music starts up again. Slightly louder, but still as muffled as before. Her fingers grip around the knife with a soft precision, the weight unfamiliar but comfortable in her palm, and she moves closer to the island.

Her footsteps are soft on the concrete floor, but her heartbeat is so loud she finds she can't hear anything other than that, and the sounds Lucas makes as he moves around. She rests on the corner of the wall, seeking comfort in the cold metal to calm her down, before shifting her right foot and peering past.

Lucas is a tall man, wiry muscles on his arms accented by the clean wife-beater he is wearing. His shaggy mop of a brown hair sifts over his ears, so thick she almost misses the ear-buds sitting in his ears, the cords dangling down his chest. He's younger than she thought, but she refuses to think about that, about his name, about his _life_, because he's standing between herself and freedom, and she needs to get rid of him.

She thanks whoever is up above that the man is wearing earphones, the music loud enough to drown out her movements, and takes one step forward, hand tight on the knife in her palm. She's worried that he'll turn at any moment, catching sight of her moving towards him despite the lack of sound. She doesn't think of actually killing him, of the consequences on herself, only the fact she needs to get this done, and nothing is going to stop her.

Alana is only one step away from his, hands in front of her, stilling at every one of his movements, when a loud drawl sounds from the hallway.

_Merle._

Lucas jolts, turning to his left and she jumps, wrapping her arm around his left shoulder. He shouts, yelling in surprise, and stumbling backwards into her, throwing them both into the wall. He kicks back, and all the air in her lungs is automatically lost. She fumbles on her knife, gritting her teeth and panicking as he continues to shout. Her arm is still around his left shoulder, her shoulder-blade pressing painfully into the wall, and hand gripping his shirt to keep her legs from falling under her. She brings her right arm up, slamming the knife into Lucas' neck, and upwards, feeling the warm blood spill over her fingers.

He doesn't die for a while, gurgling in his throat loudly, and thrashing under her arm in a pathetic attempt to survive. She's glad she's not on the other side of him, she can't see the light in his eyes or the fear etching itself into his face. She's glad when he stops, and falls against her, hitting the floor with a thump and fingers outstretched, as if to grab a small thread of faith to keep him alive.

The music continues on, the ear-buds laying dejectedly by his chest.

Alana ignores the blood on her hands, the dark red splatters on her own neck and jaw-line, hands shaking and an odd taste in her mouth, to bend down and quickly rip the knife from his body. The blood spills forward to create a red lake on the ground, and she stands above it, half mesmerised as it swirls on the grey concrete.

The door, the one she didn't enter - but guessed correctly to lead into the same room - swings open, and she finds Daryl standing there, staring at her and the knife in her hands. Not exactly shocked, but not exactly _not_ either.

She raises her eyes to meet his, blue and blue, before he nods once and murmurs, "Merle's ou' again, barely up for a coupla seconds."

It's her turn to nod, the sound of his voice breaking her from whatever sort of trance she was in, and she turns slowly, _stepping over the dead body_, and makes her way to the cupboard she noticed before, ripping open the doors and breathing easier when she sees the backpack within.

She quickly fills it up with everything and anything, sticking to the knives and ammunition than the heavy guns and Daryl seems to be looking over. She slaps his hand away as he reaches or another, and he withdraws it with a flinch and a scathing blue-eyed glare. Was that the type of fire in Lucas' eyes as her arm wrapped around his body, before the fear set in?

"C'mon, before someone comes looking for Lucas," her voice wavers of his name and she hates herself for the emotions she's feeling against her will, "or your brother wakes up again."

She makes her way to the door she entered through, moving through the now half-empty benches with the heavy backpack resting between her sore shoulder-blades, and a deeper feeling of conviction. _They can do this. It's going to be okay. _She opens the door and finds Merle slouched against the wall, unconscious once again, legs sprawled ahead of him.

"He didn'...I mean, no-one woulda heard_, _could barely hear ya from ou' 'ere." Daryl is behind her, murmuring quietly, and shuffling around her to reach out for his brother and heave him up on his right side. She steps forward and grabs Merle's other side, acknowledging the sentence with a small nod and yet still shaking, despite the fear of someone having heard Lucas gone.

Together they heave Merle down the short corridor, Alana feeling more confident with the backpack resting on her back and Daryl seeming more stable, colour on his cheeks and gun steady in his palm.

The light from the door in front of them is bright and warm, and Daryl opens it without hesitation, pausing for them to bask in the sunlight for a few moments. It wouldn't have been a big thing for Merle or Daryl, but she hadn't seen the sun, felt the wind on her skin, for over two weeks. The feeling is indescribable, and she can feel a bubble of joy resting in her lungs.

They peer out into the open space, finding themselves staring at a police car-park, the labelled vehicles long gone and replaced with a single ordinary truck. They both nod, relieved, and Daryl yanks them both towards the truck straight ahead of them, finding good fortune when they see it unlocked. They both place Merle in the in back, the pack removed from her shoulders and placed next to him, before closing the door with a hard metal clang.

"You know how to hotwire it?"

He shrugs, "Did it once, don' see why I can't again."

He moves towards the car door, but she places a hand on his shoulder and stops him, "And if that doesn't work? You stay here, try to do..._that_, I'm going to check the station. There's gotta be some keys laying around. There's only _one _truck, for chrissake."

Daryl tries to protest, almost angry she doubts him, but she's turned on her heel and running back towards the station, _back inside. _She had a death-wish, there's no other way the thought should have crossed her mind.

The armoury is clean, corridor completely empty, and she already knows that the open room has nothing of value, Daryl having checked it beforehand_. _She steps lightly into the open room, heading for the front reception when she hears the steps of Adem and Colby ahead of her. They're talking in heated arguments, and not five seconds later she hears them leave the station from the front entrance. She prays to God they don't turn right and head for the car-park, or at least that Daryl has the sense to hide behind the seats.

_No time to think about that, get the keys, get out of there._

She finds the keys fast, sitting on the top bench in the reception, and cold in her palm. Feeling a firm sense of victory she turns and heads back, light on her feet and far more calm than she has been in a while. Except for when a large figure slams towards her from the left, and knocks her to the ground.

_Martinez. _

_Fuck._

He's above her, legs straddling her waist and fingers around her throat. There's blood trickling from his forehead, a present from Daryl, and there are purple marks around his neck, courtesy of herself. She's gasping for breath, lips parted and eyes searching for a way out in panic. Tears spike at the corner of her eyes and she claws desperately at his face, trying to throw him off. The keys fall from her palm to the ground, and black dots dance across her vision as she feels herself getting weaker.

Martinez yells out, screams something she can't exactly make out, and then he's gone with a cry of pain, and a hand to his head again. The weight is removed and blackness spreading across her eyes as her throat gasps shakily for air. There's a firm grip on her forearm, the sound of keys getting picked up from the ground and she's getting pulled down the corridor, legs shaking and sudden comprehension flooding into her as a familiar face shoves her ahead.

"_...he's got a gun..."_

She doesn't hear the bang of the gun, but she does see the pain that floods across Daryl's face as blood spills from his waist and Martinez' figure goes to reload. Alana reaches out for Daryl, screaming indistinctly, shaking and regaining her strength as her lungs breath in and out and pulls him into the open room and down the corridor.

They fall through the door to the car-park, Martinez's screaming still loud in their ears and the sound of men spilling down the road in their direction at the call. The panic she's feeling is making it harder to breath, a shaking making it awkward to open the door and shove Daryl into the passenger seat, fingers curling around his fist and removing the key there. She's not thinking about it as she whispers soft words of encouragement and desperation, _just stay with me, please, just don't go_, and shuts the door on him, seeing the side of his face already paling again, worse than he was in the cell.

_Jesus fucking christ, no._

She turns to make her way to the other side of the truck, heart in her mouth and gravel skidding under her boots. As she turns though, she sees a sole figure ahead of her,through the gates of the front entrance to the car-park, and her blood turns to ice.

She catches his gaze, the striking blue burning dangerously while he grits his teeth, and she skims over the white patch covering his eye, confusion entering her system. The noises around her bleeding into one long scream scratching at her ears. Alana stumbles back, foot finding purchase in the gravel and he stares at her, painfully scrutinizing.

He takes a step forward, fist clenching, lips turning into a ready snarl and she can hear Daryl in the van – groaning at her to _hurry th' fuck _up. The Governor takes a step forward and she takes three back, fingers fumbling on the door of the car. Her blood is pumping and she's beyond terrified, ripping open the door and climbing inside faster than she thought possible.

Her left hand has twisted the key before she's even closed the door, foot slammed down on the pedal before she's judged her surroundings, and she swings the truck around, peeling towards the other end of the car-park and the gate exit on that side.

They smash through the wire fence without hesitation, and she swings on the wheel fast to readjust themselves on the road. Merle gives out a groan, an audible protest to the speed they reach, and she allows herself a brief moment of happiness as at least _one _Dixon brother seems to be recovering.

Daryl holds unto his side painfully and lets out short gasps, but keeps his eyes open, for which she is relieved. _That man has the worst fucking luck. _They wait for the noise of cars to follow behind them. They wait for the gunshots to hit their back, rip into the fast dying silence of the roads. Empty roads.

Nothing happens and they continue speeding, reaching one unmanned wall faster than she thought possible. She opens it without help, without any trouble either although the panic is building, and doesn't bother to close it behind her as she speeds out – no destination in mind, but a fast burning fear chasing them.

She's staring out at the road ahead of her, but all she can see is the Governor. _His lips morphing from a snarl to a calculating grin, fists uncurling, mouth shutting close without a sound, a yell, to alert the others. He continues grinning, and nods only once..._

Woodbury fades slowly behind them and in a moment of distracted insanity, it briefly flies through her mind if now is a good time to mention she doesn't actually have a license.

* * *

**(1)** The address is taken from the Senoia, Georgia Police Station, as well as the established date. Senoia is where they film The Walking Dead (Woodbury scenes, anyway), so it's a bit of a fiction and fact mash-up.

**Also: I created a map for the Woodbury Police Station in paint (nothing amazing ;) ), so if you wanna check it out, the link will be in my bio soon!**

**I was going to split this chapter into two different chapters, but I liked the way I ended it here. It was a horrible chapter to write, so I'm asking for some thoughts on how it went! :) Thank you! x**


	5. Chapter Four

**AN: Here it is! More of a filler than anything, if I'm being honest, but I'm not one to dive straight into all the action. I need to explain and analyse the things that happen, why they happen, and how they effect everyone! **

**(Trust me, there is some deep weaving going on in this story, particularly with Merle and Woodbury.) ;)**

**Disclaimer: Refer to the prologue. **

**IV. A World Run By The Living**

_See these waters they'll pull you up,  
Oh if you're bolder than the darkness.  
My my, let these songs be an instrument to cut,  
Oh spaces 'tween the happiness and the hardness._

"These Waters" by Ben Howard

_Derrick never steps foot in his Uncle Robert's house. The uncle and aunt he hasn't seen in over two years, or the cousins he spent every childhood milestone with._

_Neither does Alana._

_Peter pulls into the suburban house driveway and Charles, Yolanda and James follow in the hulking Xterra Charles had forced them to carpool within. The back of the truck is stacked with supplies that James has managed to get his hands on; _when _and _how, _Alana has no idea, but she's beyond grateful that the hardened man has their back. Peter is one man, Charles another, but James is in a league of his own; even if his commands were based largely on pure, blind instinct rather than actual knowledge. _

_Her uncle holds up a hand when she reaches out to unbuckle the seatbelt and open her door, an understanding look squinting his brown eyes as he scrutinizes both her and Derrick who had frozen as well. _

"_Stay here."_

_She lets out a noise of indignation, and Derrick splutters out a weak, "What the hell? Why?!"_

_Peter grabs his semi-automatic from the glove-box, checks the barrel and clicks of the safety in one fluid motion, giving them both a look of parental concern – a fatherly look, something neither had since for a _long, long time. _He simply states, "Just stay here", in a tone that destroys all rebuttals, before exiting swiftly. _

"_Jesus," Derrick lets out an irritated breath, and Alana grunts a noise of agreement. Being stuck in the car for just under a total 10 hours and treated like children with the ex-military trio that had 'taken control of them' is taking it's toll._

_Alana watches James and Charles meet up with Peter near the front door, glancing over at Yolanda in the opposite car and give her a small smile when she finally tears her eyes off of her husband, Charles. _

_It's not until after the men enter the house with guarded expressions that Alana notices the one red handprint on the top, bedroom window, dragged down the clear glass and spreading. Once she notices that, it's hard to tear her eyes off of it, and the half-ripped curtains in the living room. _

_A deep rooted fear sits in her stomach and for a moment it's hard to breathe. All she can see is Natasha with her children, Robert Jnr, Laura and Timothy smeared on the kitchen floor, gurgling and crying rivets of blood unto the tiles. She's not sure if Derrick has noticed the blood, she's not sure how _she didn't until now, _but she snakes her hand through the seats and grabs hold of his wrist, squeezing tight. He shifts to grab her hand in his, and they both fall silent, waiting for their uncle and his friends to return with the news they already know._

_The gunshots that fire into the air make them all jump and Derrick slowly withdraws his hand from her and sits up stiffly. They're too emotionally exhausted to move, to console, to cry. _

_When Peter does return, they don't speak – neither does James and Charles in the other car and she knows Yolanda has already guessed. _

_They're a couple blocks away – Peter leading them through the streets with tightly navigated turns, knowing the streets like the back of his hand from his childhood – before he dares speak and even then it's a tightly lipped and cracking, "Robert's not there. We're going to check the CDC."_

_There aren't any details, any tears, any consolation that "It will be alright". She's being selfish, she knows, but she wants her uncle but with every second, he's slipping further and further away. His eyes are red, hands clenched tight on the steering wheel, but with no outward emotion Derrick and Alana struggle by themselves to control their breathing. _

_In the space of a week the fallen have begun rising and the docile, violent. _

_In the space of a week she's lost half of her family, the rest unknown and scattered._

_In the space of a week reality has caved in and horror taken over; emotions broken and confusion high. _

_A world run by the living is destroyed by the dead._

* * *

It's less than ten minutes later and she's still driving, but now the pain in her leg is burning up – nowhere near ignorable, and her back is stiffening in the seat. Daryl is beside her, head on the window and eyes glued to the truck's side mirrors as they speed through the newly found suburbia district. They haven't been followed as of yet, but that didn't cool the fear that is keeping their blood fiery hot. Merle, still stuck in the back, has been fluttering in and out of consciousness, muttering sentences under his breath that both her and Daryl ignore.

Of course, she does it through tolerance, _perhaps even tolerance_. Daryl ignores his brother only because he himself is also on the brink of a deep, _deep _sleep.

The blood dripping from his waist and slipping through his curled fingers spill unto the seat and the entire front cabin smells of rust that wrinkles her nose. He had tied the ripped up cloth she had wrapped around him previously, - using Merle's shirt – around himself. He also hadn't asked for help, tight-lipped and grunting quietly, but he didn't refuse or smack her hand away either, when she reached over – _eyes on the road_ – to grip one end of the fabric and help pull it tight.

_Is it after 1.5L of blood loss that he'll fall unconscious? Or 40%?_

_How do I know when he reaches it?_

_How do I _stop _it?_

"The hell is goin' on 'ere?!" a rough drawl sounds from the back, slurring and panicked, and she braces herself for the redneck's volume and brash nature, fingers tightening on the wheel.

She figures answering him quickly would help their situation more than hinder it, and turns her chin to reply, one eye on Daryl's paling face, "'Bout a 15 minute drive from Woodbury, somewhere in _Horizon's Edge Estates._"

_Wherever the hell that is._

She can hear Merle standing up, swaying as she continues the fast swerving speed down the main road and she mutters a low, "_Don't see you fuckin' drivin_'" to his equally hostile complaints, before spotting a small side alley and pulling into it, killing the engine with a flick of her wrist and an uneasy feeling spreading through her stomach.

She doesn't like keeping still, staying on show, in broad daylight only ten minutes from their assailants. The feeling is sour in her mouth, but she rubs at the base of her neck absent-mindedly – the pressure of Martinez' fingers around her throat so _real _- and ignores the spider-like feeling crawling over her arms.

Alana turns and already finds Merle leaning in-between the gap of the two seats, mouth half open as if isn't entirely sure of his own motor-skills, leaning lightly on her seat with his maimed hand reached out to brace himself on the back of Daryl's chair, metal on rough leather.

"Jesus, this is rougher th'na badger's foreskin," he grunts, staring ahead in a sort of unfocused way. Emotions flicker over his face, easily readable and understandable, and she winces with memories of herself being knocked out, and the heavy headaches that follow, "Th' hell happen'd?!"

His cold, blue eyes are now focused on Daryl, and tightening of his mouth setting guilt deep into her stomach. Daryl doesn't answer, resolutely silent, and she's not sure if he's just overly focused on the rear-view mirror and the imminent threat that it may show, or if he's just lost the ability to follow conversation. She grimly bets on the latter.

There's a few moments of terse silence - and a silent half-glare from Merle - before she realises his question had _always_ been directed at _her_, and she stumbles over her words, guilt swelling up her tongue and making her clumsy.

"He urh, we- M-Martinez had a gun an'-"

"Nah, _I fucking worked tha' one out."_

His angry dismissal boils her blood, and twitches the muscles in her fingers, but blame keeps her mouth shut and mind moving fast, _that's his brother, Alana, he has a right to be angry! _She moves on quickly, paranoia, blame and panic swelling in her stomach to some indescribable ball; some level of unreachable hell. "Look, we need to make a camp, get off the main roa-"

"Right," Merle nods once, turning and half-swaying to the back of the van and out of her view, feet unsteady, "Ditch th' van, continue up east a ways 'n' double bac-"

Another level of panic bubbles up and she's opened her mouth before she's even registered what she's saying, "No, _Merle, now! _He can't make it that far! He's not going to survive with just a _shirt _keeping 'im together!"

Merle stills, and Alana wonders if he's ignoring the possibility that Daryl's on the brink of death as if it's some foreign concept on purpose. Like the bullet can't _possibly _be as bad as reality warranted. As if it's completely impossible, because he's a _Dixon. _Because that's _his brother. _Because they just got reunited after _however long_, and they were not going to be torn apart; Daryl can't go, he can't die, he can't _leave, _not now, not _ever. _They're _brothers_, but most of all, they're _Dixon's_. And Dixon's are unbreakable.

Until they're not.

Rather live a fearless life than face the reality of death.

Like right now, right here.

Alana can't stomach the thought of opening them up to the truth, but mouth sour and hands clasping the back of her seat in a half-hearted attempt to see the back of Merle's figure she continues, "We scout the area, find a camp, a _house_, set up for the night. I need medical supplies, he's not_ going to last, Merle. He got shot for fuck's sake."_

There is a change in her voice and Merle notices it, less of a cry, more of a demand. It angers him, irrationally angry, for reasons he can't exactly pinpoint but understands anyway. There's a change in her voice and it's the burning fire to find her family dimming, replaced by a shocked and despair filled panic and worry for things out of her control, things she _meddles in. Things she doesn't fuckin' belong in, th' stupid bitch._

She's getting torn apart, guilt and family, and Merle doesn't want to watch or witness it.

He's still facing away from them both, Alana and Daryl behind him, lip sneering up in anger and a fast-burning need to leave. To _not _watch his brother die while he sits and twiddles his thumbs. Merle opens up the back door to the truck, eyes burning under the quick glare of the sun, and he sneers a cold, "Stay 'ere,"

She trips over her tongue, metaphorically of course, "_What?! Lemme come with you; you just got knocked out, Merle!"_

_"Stay 'ere,_" He repeats, turning slightly and locking eyes with Alana, _blueandblue_, before adding a healthy amount venom to his voice, "An' ya best start prayin' girlie, if I get back 'n' he ain't as right as rain, it's you I'm comin' after first."

Alana watches as he slams the door behind him, the image of his sole figure turning away burned into her brain, a cold sweat fear breaking over her for the man she's essentially stuck with. Of course, she could always leave. Hop out of the door and turn her back on both Merle and Daryl, the unbreakable Dixon brothers. Forget about them _completely. Find Derrick and Peter. _

But in a way, she also can't.

So instead she glances once at Merle in the rear view mirror, confidence and perhaps even arrogance keeping his shoulders up, her last thought on the cold-eyed man being _'that sonofabitch stole my backpack.'_

* * *

Daryl's skin is cold and clammy under her fingertips, cool to the touch and overly sweaty. He stares upward, laying more horizontal than vertical on the chair she adjusted before hand, trying to ignore the painful trail her fingertips leave as they search along his back. It would have been an awkward situation had she recognized it, but a stone determination and level-head keeps her to treating him just like she treated the patients at her last camp. Of course, those men and woman and children hadn't risked their life for her and gained a bullet in the meantime, but she'll approach that subject when she gets there.

It seems like the more and more she spends time with the Dixon's, the bigger her debt grows.

_Don't expect to be able to tell the difference between entrance and exit gunshot wounds. There's no reliable way to tell and frankly, Alana, it doesn't matter._

It's Peter's voice she hears as she works silently, his fingers guiding her like he had the first time he had shown her one of the wounded men in the camp. James used to sit beside her, a watchful eye and a soft encouragement when her hands would shake. Except she's not shaking now. She's distant, far more calm than she has been in two weeks, and controlled. This is something she knows, despite the lack of official training and equipment she has. _This is all she can do, _and she knows that.

Alana's glad that the make of the chair removes any need for her to adjust Daryl to search for an exit wound, taking extra care when a slight nudge results in Daryl swearing angrily at her. The back of his shirt is wet, not with blood, but sweat, and after a few moments she's given up hope in finding the bullet gone. It's stuck somewhere inside, hopefully lodged in muscle tissue, and not anything else. Of course, hopes never get them far in this world.

_Removing the bullet isn't necessary; it doesn't fix the damage it's already done and you'll most likely just pain the patient more. Most of the time doctors don't even take it out, and we're not doctors, Alana. We're not even nurses._

She nods to herself, going down her mental check-list. Control blood loss. Keep wound clean. Treat for shock. Pray to god. _  
_

_I'm not even religious. _

Alana lifts up Daryl's shirt, taking extra care to keep the ripped shirt from slipping off his wound. At first she does it slowly, carefully, but he ends up snapping_ '...bandaid', _at her, and she's smart enough to take the hint; tugging the shirt up in one quick movement and giving him to moment to stop his quiet groaning. She presses her fingers along his wound softly, and bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

_Okay, not too bad. I can work with this..._

She doesn't have alcohol to keep the hole clean or medicine to dull his fever or pain. She pulls tighter at the makeshift bandage, jumping into the back. She quickly spotting the blanket she'd seen early when they'd dumped Merle in, in too much of a rush to make him comfortable on the cold, metal truck bed. Draping it over Daryl's body, she presses it into the sides of him and pulls it up to his chin. He looks odd like that. Younger, perhaps. Sadder. More drawn.

_Don't elevate the legs to treat for shock IF the gunshot is above the waist...unless it's in the arm, of course. If the wound is in the abdomen, or chest it'll bleed more quickly, making it harder for the patient to breathe. _

She's unsure now, is his hole high enough to constitute as above the waist, or not? She sits down on her own chair, facing him still and steepling her fingers under her chin. She starts praying to a God she's not sure she believes in, hoping that his body can fight off whatever infection is already brewing. The wound isn't fatal...but it _can be_. And that's what worrying her.

She prays for Merle to find alcohol. Bandages. Vitamins. Medicine. Her stomach growls and suddenly the taste of the porridge she had that morning is like lead on her tongue, head spinning. _Food_.

Alana lets out a deep breath, both frustrated and weak at the same time. Daryl responds with a weak mutter, a tired "...Ain't tha' bad...ha' worse...".

He falls off his sentence, and she translates that to a pathetic, "It's not my time. I'm going to be fine". It makes her chest hurt and throat constrict, because she doesn't have the heart to tell him that nobody dies _before _their time.

That's what their time means.

"...you were the'..."

She's frozen in a state of complete confusion, before understanding that's he's completely delusional at the moment, slipping in and out of reality often. He loses his sentences again, going on to talk about _Merle _and_ woods_ and_ Nelly _and she listens to his voice slowly fade out.

_Remember, handguns produce significantly slower velocity projectiles than rifles. They typically cause less severe injuries - now, that's not to say handguns aren't dangerous...just that rifles cause bigger holes. The bigger the hole, the bigger the pile of shit you've walked into, Alana._

James had winked at her after he'd said that.

* * *

Merle had returned with an arrogant smile lifting the corners of his lips, a beer bottle swinging from his fingertips and his -_ no, her _- backpack swinging on his back. There was blood on his pants, though he swore he hadn't seen a walker within three blocks of the house he'd found. He swore a lot actually, when he'd seen Daryl. Not exactly at her, but not exactly _not _either.

He'd carried his brother in, carefully of course, but it still made Alana nervous. It was her _golden rule _to_ never_ move a patient..but they couldn't leave him out in plain sight. _None of them _will survive the night outside.

They laid Daryl out on the couch of the two-storey house, the warmest section of the building with carpeted floors and soft pillows. He was more awake now, or at least he was before she'd left.

Of course, it was just to move the van out of the suspicious alleyway and into the abandoned car-port not a street away, but still. It was the closet thing to freedom she has in that moment, and despite the stress, a small smile had stretched her cracking lips. It's not like paranoia and panic to give her five minutes of unprecedented bliss and she finds herself taking a slow jog to patrol the block. Her leg protests at the stretch, but she makes it back to the house with no trouble.

It's physically painful to close the door behind her and move back into darkened house; losing the new-found sun leaves her arms cold, and the air is noticeably stuffier inside.

_Mind over matter._

It's not until after she's inside, standing in the middle of the hallway, does she realise that the paranoia stemmed from something completely opposite to what she had thought.

_They wouldn't leave...would they? Not randomly, without notice? Not without explaining to her, where exactly she is; pooling the resources? He said that, hadn't he? Surely he had? Not without an understanding on how they are, what they'd do? They can't just leave, not after everything. _

Derrick.

Derrick. Peter.

_Mind over matter. Priorities...learn them._

Merle is shuffling through the backpack, pulling out the small amount of supplies he had found. He rolls a can of _whatever _across the floor and it stops at her feet, clinking against her shoes. It's cold to pick up, and she nods once at him, chilled by her previous thoughts and moves warily into the room. The blinds are pulled closed, door barricaded already by the original owners of the house, a fact she hadn't noticed before when she'd left and entered through the back door. The small armchair is soft to sit in, but she's soon staring at the floor when looking at the photos on the wall becomes too painful.

"Did you find any needles or thread?"

"Found a needle...no idea how, 'n' there's a reel o' fishin' line," Merle grunts, ruffling through the backpack and holds up a beer an a box in triumph, "sweet nectar and some Tylenol!"

She narrows her eyes at him and his enthusiasm, weighing up the pros and cons of explaining to him the effects of mixing both if he has any thoughts on it. She places the cold can on the floor, the family photos making it hard to stomach any food, and holds out a hand for the alcohol, needle and fishing line.

Merle goes to throw it at her but stops when they both hear Daryl grunt from the couch across from them, "No...'m _fine_, jesus."

Alana and Merle share a glance, but it's Daryl that holds their attention. Pulling himself to a sitting position on the couch and swearing under his breath as if they can't hear him. There is pain on his face but he acts like he can't feel anything, determined and hand outstretched for his own can, "'M _starving_".

"Daryl," she breathes, "I need to stitch that up. The faster I clean it, the less chance there is of a blood infection. We've left it long enough alrea-"

"You shoul' listen ta her, baby brother, this lil nurse here knows her stuff, this ain't no time to be actin' all tough."

"Gimme the needle then, I'll do i' myself", he snaps back stubbornly, one hand still outstretched for either the food or medical equipment.

Alana shakes her head, replying in an insistent tone, "You can't do it yourself, Daryl, you'll end up pulling something and dragging us down into a situation worse than what we are now!"

Daryl's quiet, and she's left trying to understand why he keeps refusing her help, why he keeps trying to get rid off her as fast as possible. His head dips down, long hair hiding his face and she's almost a hundred percent certain that he's getting dazed again, either from the physical assertion or his infection getting worse. Neither is worse or better than the other.

Her voice is soft as she whispers a saying James would repeat to her when she used to attend to his wounds; something he'd picked up from his first-aid training classes and that Derrick vocalized whenever he saw fit, "_A stitch in time saves nine._"

Daryl chokes on a grunt, replying in a low voice that taunts them both, "Th' early bird catches th' worm, huh?"

He's still sour at his brother, distrusting of this stranger and in unmeasurable pain; literally the burden of the group, though no-one would label him as such but himself. Especially Merle, his own brother, or Alana, still caught up in her guilt from his gunshot wound. It's hard to ignore your own emotions though, your own ideology and understanding of yourself.

"Never leave tha' till tomorrow, what you can do today."

Merle's lips lift up into an amused smirk at their confusion, a low chuckle escaping from his throat, "Wha'? Not a fan o' ol' Franklin?"

He throws the medical equipment to Alana who is still shocked that he's even _knows _that quote, let alone who said it, and Daryl watches her fingers pull the fishing line through the eye of the needle quickly, unrolling the thread as if his statement had granted her permission to work on him. It had, but he didn't want to admit that. She's probably got the most experience out of them two put together, despite the bruised and broken bodies, the fractures and cuts they'd both gathered after drunken nights before the world went to shit.

The corner of his own lips turn up, the fog of incomprehension just as thick as ever and the words leaving his mouth before he's even aware he's thought them up, "It's 'which', not 'what', ya idiot."

* * *

**AN: Next chapter we'll be seeing a short paragraph from someone else's P.O.V instead of the flashbacks at the start...hopefully it should answer some questions on the Governor, Woodbury and how the Rick's group is holding up! We'll be seeing the Prison group soon too; just hang in there! ;)**

**Yeah, it's basically a complete filler. Sorry, not sorry! ;) But thoughts? **


	6. Chapter Five (Edited)

**AN: READ THIS PLEASE AND THANK YOU: Rewrote this chapter, so no, there wasn't a glitch! If you've already read it, there's really just more body and explanation; you can skip to the extra paragraph(s) at the end if you really want, but that part is definitely the most important! Sorry, thanks, and I hope you enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Refer to the prologue. **

**V. On Blood On Bone**

_Who am I, darling to you?__  
__Who am I?__  
__Going to tell you stories of mine__  
__Who am I?_

_Who am I, darling for you?__  
__Who am I?__  
__Could be a burden in time, lonely__  
__Who am I, to you?_

"Promise" by Ben Howard

"_Robbie stocked up our food supplies; we're running low on salt and yeast, but in surplus of essentially everything else..." His voice is slippery, uncertain. Cold water on metal. _

"_Good, good. How's th' armoury, what are we missing?"_

"_A few items: Adem is gathering together a list but it won't be overly damaging. They shouldn't have been able to carry much."_

"_They shouldn't have been able to _leave _in the first place." The statement is harsh and scathing, anger finally leaking through on cold, blue eyes, "Is Martinez awake yet?"_

"_Yes, but_ _Dr. Stevens has him under watch at the moment. He's suffered a co-"_

"_Get him up here right now, I need to speak with him."_

"_I think it would be best to send up Pete or Shumpert instead. Joey is patrolling the perimeters and Lucas is gathering up a group to search the developments on the eastern front, everything is currently under control. Dr. Stevens doesn't want Martinez moved at the moment."_

_He lets out an exasperated sigh, lowering his eyes to the hardwood desk, _"_Stop Lucas, there are to be _no_ scouts until _I _say so. Get Colby to help Joey on patrols, I want all o' our walls covered and _send Martinez up now. _I don't care for Dr. Stevens' wishes."_

_Milton can't help but question, confused, _"_No scouts...is that wise? We have prisoners on the run and an entire town in lockd-"_

"Exactly_ why I want the perimeters checked _and_ patrolled _and _double checked," He stresses, "And I want Adem out of the plans. Put him on babysitting f'r all I care. The man is a disgrace."_

"_But we need to find th-"_

"_Escaped prisoners are less of our concern than the Prison group a few miles from 'ere, Milton."_

"_We haven't heard from them since the attack, are they honestly still a threat?"_

"_They're a threat all the way until I say they're not. We don't know how many of them there are, how much weapons they have..."_

"_With all due respect, we instigated the battle."_

_"Details," The Governor brushes off the comment unconcerned and he can't help but feel shock running through his blood._

"We tortured members of their group."

"_Merle tortured them.__" He snaps, and raises his eyes as a challeng; daring Milton to say otherwise and threatening him in one sentence, against spreading it among the other citizens of Woodbury. It's a terse pause, Milton stares back into his blue eyes, lips tight and pursed and fists nervously clasped together._

_"Besides, Merle is the one who kidnapped them" The Governor continues. _

"_And_ y_ou betrayed Merle. He's gone now. Who's to say he won't team up with that group for revenge?"_

"_Merle has a brother with a gunshot wound last I heard, to _care for_. He's not likely to team up with the group that cut his hand off, indirectly or not, and they're not about to trust the man that, in your words, 'tortured members of their group'_."

"_Desperate times call for desperate measures" He looks conflicted and nauseous, voice a soft protest, a soft plea to understand. _

"_They're angry, not desperate Milton. There is a difference. But you're righ'; the Prison is a threat I am not taking lightly. The Dixon brothers, however, are a nuisance we'll deal with later."_

"_And Alana Hardewicke?"_

"_The girl-"_

"The girl_ the entire town was given the impression, _left weeks ago_. You've had her in the cells for how long? If the town finds ou-" This is something he can fight for, the memory of the brown haired, blue eyed teenager that had walked into his lab with a smart wit and an even faster mind. The memory of her running down the street with Woodbury children at her heels, daring them to run just a bit faster, laugh a bit louder._

_And the memory of a dark and bloodstained cell, one barred window and a bare mattress. _

"They wont_."_

"If they do?"

"_They'll understand or I'll _make them," _The Governor snarls back, before taking a deep breath and trying to reason, "__She has connections, survivors. Threats."_

_Milton speaks up, almost cutting him off, _"_Presumptions. All of it."_

"_Facts. _We know_ of other survivors."_

_There's a pause and Milton analyses his words, scutinizing. His voice is slower now, more deliberate, "_Other _survivors...you've already discovered some of her group?"_

"Some _of her group, yes. And dealt with them."_

_He takes a sharp, shallow breath, "..__.is she aware?"_

"_If Alana was aware, she never would have left us. Especially not with Merle."_

* * *

In her dreams the guns are toys and she has to bluff to make them notice her.

Of course, now her gun is cold and real in her hands, a dual action SIG Sauer P226. The heavy weight unfamiliar, tucked into the band of her pants and almost burning her skin. Metal on fabric on skin on blood on bone.

She remembers the look Merle had given her when he'd handed her the weapon, a threat slipping from his teeth so fast and _thick_ she had felt a chill run down her spine. It had dried her throat and frozen her limbs, a small nod the only reply she'd been able to muster. It's hard to understand the older Dixon brother, moodswings that leave you wondering how you _didn't notice _the hidden anger in his knuckles and eyes.

She had passed Daryl to leave the house from the back door, sharing one glance at him and yet that was all she needed, to know that he'd heard them both. Half of her wonders what he thinks, whether he agrees with Merle's threat, or if maybe he's changed his mind. There's a part too, that wonders how he'd react to find his brother with blood on his hands and another tally mark, notched into his belt.

_Derrick and Peter and Derrick andPeterandDerrickandPeter..._

Merle is standing across from her now, shoulder's tense and head down, ruffling through the drawers of the kitchen they're both standing in, a few blocks from their camp. The dust particles swirl hazily in the harsh light from the dirty window to her right, the day still relatively early and her eyes bleary from lack of sleep. She can't remember switching with Merle throughout the night, or how they'd just _understood _what to do, without direction, but her back is stiff and sore and exhaustion laced tightly in her bones. There hadn't been any threats though, throughout the night. No walkers, no survivors, no _nothing_.

Her old boot kicks at a plastic sheet on the floor, her peripheral vision watching a tiny mouse scamper through the holes along the skirting board. She takes a deep breath and starts searching again for items they need.

Not for a first time that day, is Alana glad that they'd left the musty, old house and searched the neighbouring buildings, mice or not. First it was for the dry rations they'd found, the warm red jumper she'd snatched and another canvas bag she's managing to slowly fill up with her own possessions - possessions she hides from the main pack (a fact Merle grits his teeth over). Now, however, it's the conversation she's planning on having and the privacy they've gained with it.

She's not sure when she decided to bring it up, why she should. Technically, her debt is paid. Daryl is as well as _she _can get him, although a fever and infection set in during the early morning, and _they're out? Right. _She's done.

So why is she remembering the half-dillusional mutters that had spilled from the younger Dixon during the night. Talks of cells and milk and no legs and bites and _doctors. _It's not exactly black and white, she's not exactly where she's going with this conversation, because either way; she has no idea where she stands with either man. She can't imagine them hunting her down if she left in the middle of the night, but that is almost unthinkable. And yet, so is bringing up the conversation.

So instead she focuses on something that is understood. _Keep Daryl alive. _

"Daryl mentioned a doctor." Her voice is soft, imploring, blue eyes half squinted in reluctant admission.

Merle's back is to her, but she can _feel _the look that passes over his face as he grunts a reply, "_And?"_

_"_He needs one, and he said that group has someone with medical experience. More a vet, but better than nothing."

"You ha'e medical experience. Hell, girl, you're gainin' experience righ' now!"

"He needs _s__erious medical attention, _Merle", she takes a step forward, voice louder, more confident. _  
_

He slams a drawer shut, louder and angrier than before, "You're suppose' to be tha medical attention, I gotcha out on that deal, you rememb'r?"

She splutters out a shocked reply, tripping over her feet to she follows him around the columns into the living room, where he stands, _once again, _back to her. "I'm not a doctor! I'm trying, but I can't treat a gunshot wound; not now that it's starting to get infected!"

There's a pause and Merle straightens out his back, drawing himself to his full height, "He got shot 'cause o' you, didn't he girl?"

Her mouth opens but she realises she doesn't have an answer, biting her tongue. He's flipped the conversation so rapidly she's almost regretting bringing it up. She's silent. Worried. Fingers tugging at the shirt she's wearing nervously _because, yes, it is._

Yes it is, but does that change anything?

It was a guess - an accurate one - and in one cold glance he can see all that she's too scared to say out loud. He licks his lip, nods once and eyes growing _blue-er_ with every second he stares her down, "I got you ou' fer a reason, girl,_ you're the one _supposed to be keeping him alive, no' some doc in ol' Officer Friendly's group, you hear? You owe me._ You owe him"._

She's still silent, although now it's more in anger than anything else. The word runs over her skin like an insect and she struggles to keep her fists from curling at his reasoning, at his _twisted idea _of how things are _supposed_ to be run. _  
_

Merle turns away from her, satisfied in her silence, and the anger bubbles up so fast because all she can think of is Derrick and a wound with a fast growing infection. Of Derrick and Peter turning his back and _then just red._ She quickly reaches out and slams the drawer his fingers are closed on, the bang echoing around the room and invading the pressuring atmosphere they both fell into. Her voice is a low threat in the empty room, loud despite her volume, "_He's going to die."_

She can see his anger the split second before his hand lashes out, fast and hot against her forearm as he shoves her away and she hits the floor before the pain is registered. He moves away, one lip snarled up, feet loud on the wooden floorboards, and a lump is in the back of her throat. She can tell he wants to do more, to _hit her, to make her bleed like she made Daryl, _but he resigns to just _pushing her. _Just getting her _away from him. _

She hates the way she shakily stands back up, blood pumping loudly in her ears, and dusts herself off. Her blues eyes are on the floor, hands half curled in front of her and shivering. The adrenaline is running off fast, her posture defeated, but tone a conflicted cross of anger and understanding, embarrassment and fear, sadness and imploring, _snapped and irritated_, "_When I_ find _my_ little brother, I'm going to do _whatever it takes_ to keep him alive. If going to a well-known camp is going to keep him safe and alive.._.then I'll suck it up_."

Merle catches her eyes and she doesn't need to explain how she knows about the Atlanta group, or the situation that had occurred. He moves away from her, an unreadable expression on his face and he ignores her stare and all eye contact.

He disappears around the corner to reappear on the other side of the hallway after a moment, with a calculated and drawn expression. Like he can't face her. Like _hearing her speak about her brother, with his on a deathbed, is physically paining him._ He holds up his disfigured hand, shaking it in front of her face, "You see this, girl? This is wha' happen'd las' time I _sucked it up," _

She swallows hard, dry lips and wide eyes _wait what, no,_ they couldn't have, right? "They...-"

He speaks slower now, leaning forward and eyes strained on her reactions, "Handcuffed me to a fuckin' roof with biters at the door. Hadta cut it off meself to ge' outta there _alive_."

Bile rises in her throat and her eyes are stuck to his arm, _or what remains. _He spits on the floor, disgusted at her and the shocked expression she wears, "So don't you be telling me how t' look afta my brother. We ain' goin' _there."_

She ends up finding a weak whining voice slipping from her lips, defeated and shocked, but desperate, "But Merle, we need their doctor. And Daryl knows 'em, _lived with them_, they can't b-"

"Tha' bad?" He cuts her off and finishes her sentence, he lets out an exasperated noise and turns around, "You sayin', you'd do _whatever _i' takes to keep _your _brother alive?"

"Of course," she breathes.

"_Anything?"__  
_

_"Anything."_

_"_Even going to camps _you don't trust?"_

She's silent and he takes that as a yes, leaning closer, "So you'll go back t' the Governor? Back t' Woodbury? Seemed to me like you were fightin' pretty hard to ge' outta there, girl. Didn't think you'd be tha' keen to go back."

Frustration taints her cheeks a pink, and she angry she got herself in this hole - _this hole where Merle starts to make sense - _because they can't be like that? Woodbury can't be like this Prison group. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

_No, over there they cut off people's hands. In Woodbury, they'd only threaten it._

Alana grits her teeth, the top of her lip curling, "I said alive_ AND_ safe. Don't twist my words."

Merle snorts, not amused but an amused gesture all the same, "That Atlanta group aint gonna keep _my_ brother_ safe_, you hear? You really think the_ Gov_ is gonna allow a couple o' pests on his doorstep? He'll be on 'em faster than you can cry f'r your _momma_, sweetheart."

He grabs the bag, leaves the house and slams the door behind with only the soft protest of, "_He's going to die" _following him out.

And she's left standing in the cold room, a throbbing hip and a heavy gun.

And a dying man on her conscience.

She stands there for a moment, eyes skimming over the wallpaper and the shattered glass on the floor. She tries to change her thoughts, her directions. She concentrates on the breeze and the new scents of the _outside. _It's still odd for her, being in the open, _free. _She can feel the shackles weighing down her ankles and wrists, a harsh pressure on her chest. It's hard to enjoy it though; stressed beyond belief and mind still reeling after the previous events, how the hands of time seemed to slow just these past days.

Suddenly she hears a shout, a pained cry and her feet are taking her back to the house faster than she thought possible, light on the concrete and barely making a sound. She doesn't think about it, taking the corners with a skid, panicked when she realises how long she stood in that room after Merle had left -_ too long, too late_. She runs up the back-porch, slamming the door open, banging it against the wall behind it and hand reaching for the gun on her hip in one fluid motion, not even _thinking _about the fact she's not sure if it's loaded, if it's ready to fire, if it's _worth it._

Thoughts of the Governor run through her head, heart pounding and her feet want to take her _out, _in the opposite direction _outoutout_. _Why is she still here? She knows where the van is! She knows what is waiting back at Woodbury! H_er lips rip open instead in a panicked cry, "Merle?! Daryl?!"

There's no answer and she runs into the next room, eyes scanning fast over the walls, "_Daryl?!"_

_"MERLE?!"_

_Oh, god. PleasenopleasebeokayMerleandDarylandnononon e_

A hand slashes out, thick fingers wrapping around her mouth and pulling her backwards into a broad chest, cutting off her shouts. She can't help the automatic impulse to _scream,_ running out of breath and fingers clumsily clawing at the hands holding her.

"Shuddup! Jesus girl, you wanna bring th' entire fuckin' town on us?!"

Merle's voice is angry, loud and harsh in the room and she still struggles against his firm grip, paranoia and fear slipping into the corners of her mind. He lets go of her abruptly, and she falls slightly forward, whirling around _angry and shaky and confused, _"_What the fuck?!"_

He raises a finger to her, threats written into every aspect of him, "Shut ya mouth girl, or I'll shut i' for you!"

She takes a second to look around, levelling her breathing and stopping her shaking and the view in front of her suddenly hits her fast. She wrinkles her nose in automatic disgust, stomach hurling as the smell of vomit rises.

Daryl is holding himself up, one hand on the carpet and another on his wound, face pale and lips blue, tinges of coffee coloured blood on the corners of his mouth. He looks tired, cold and weak, but determination paints his face in harsh angular strokes. Sweat has wet his hair to his forehead but his voice is steady, although slightly out of it, "_What the fuck took ya both so fuckin' long?"_

There's another body in the room, beside him, laying face down on the floor. Dark hair sticks up oddly from his neck. Her breathing freezes, dark throughts in her mind, she's tries to piece together the discarded pieces, eyes darting around the room.

_He fought off a perfectly healthy man with an infected gunshot wound? _

Dixons.

"He's the only one" Daryl rasps when he notices her panic, pulling himself into a crouching position and watching them both, "heard th' van roll on up. Dunno if he's 'part o' Woodbury". He glances sharply at Merle with the last statement, before spitting another glob of coffee coloured vomit and blood on the floor. She wants to take his word for it, but moves to the covered window, moving a small piece of curtain away and sneaking a look outside.

The street is empty, cold and grey looking. There's a lone van in the driveway, an unwelcome sight, and she lets out a small and uneasy sigh.

Merle stabs the unconscious - _or dead - _man with his foot, rolling him over. Alana gets the quick image of sharp cheekbones and a thick nose before the image of Derrick's young face makes her turn her head away, the similarities turning to acid in her mouth.

"Nah, never seen 'im 'fore" Merle slurs, eyes narrowed, fingers crudely clasped around the man's chin as he scrutinizes him.

"Could he be, though? A scout?" Her voice is soft, unable to look at the man or either of the Dixons, beyond terrified.

Merle shakes his head, "Nah, don't think so, 'm tellin' you, never seen 'im 'fore".

"So there's another group in town?"

"Or this i' just a passerby."

"That _just_ happened to choose _this_ house to look in?! Out of the entire neighbourhood_?!"_

Daryl shakes his head, gaining their attention, "I reckon he lived 'ere...or _did_. Remember tha' stash we found upstairs?"

She purses her lips, the thought had escaped her completely, "The couple of bars and blankets?"

Daryl shrugs, his suggestion on the table to take as they will. It _made sense, _but it didn't help cool her uneasiness. She shifts her weight awkwardly, trying to assess it. _Only one. Only one. Only one. Man. He's a man, though. The stash had..._

"Doubt this man ha' a fancy for lace panties," Merle grunts, standing up and moving to the hallway to look out through the kitchen window, and just like that they've taken position, feet out stretched, both with their hands on their guns and eyes flickering over the streets.

"So there's more."

"We needta move. Firefight'll draw attention, 'n' I can't imagine the lady bein' overly hospitable._"_

Daryl groans, not in annoyance but pain, as he moves to stand up, swaying on his feet, "D'chya ge' medicine at least?"

He's looking at her, and she knows full well that it's because she's carrying her bag, the main pack at her feet, but she still feels on the spot. "...no".

Daryl curses, and moves away, swiping the gun strapped to the unconscious man's waist, and moving for the doorway. He's impatient, they all are, desperate to leave and _finally stop being chased. _Peace, she finds herself thinking, that's what we want. _Peace. _

Merle speaks up after another moment, turning his body to face his brother, "Doesn' matter anyway, _Darleena," - _it's the first time she's heard that name, and she's not sure what to make of it, the man's voice unnaturally light and teasing_ -_ "We'll be seein' if your ol' buddy, Officer Friendly's got any of the good stuff."

Daryl and Alana are both left standing in shock as Merle grabs his pack, shrugging it unto his shoulder and calling out to them to _hurry the hell up_. He nudges Daryl with his shoulder, taking half of the man's weight and ignoring the looks they're passing at him.

Alana watches they walk out to the van, gun tight in their hands and heads held up high, Daryl as well despite his pain. She watches Merle place his brother in the back of the unconscious man's van - _the unconscious man that will wake up very angry - _leaving the back open as a clear sign of where she's expected.

She's left staring at the Dixon brothers, stuck between uneasy and completely _fucking_ terrified; so conflicted she's not aware of which emotion is stronger. She's glad to be leaving though, entering the camp with Merle. They're both strangers, technically, and she's not sure how to take this new group. Daryl's group. This is someone she can stand behind, someone she can _hide behind _as pathetic as she _knows _it sounds. She'll hide behind him just as much as she'll hide _from him though; _knowing that going back to the Prison camp is a decision he going to be hanging over her head.

But she's going, leaving this house and Woodbury's expectations. Leaving with Merle. And she's terrified but glad. Especially with Merle.

* * *

The road trip is silent. Every bump and rock of the gravel road travels harshly along her spine, and she can only imagine how Daryl feels, hunched with his back to the divider on the front seats. He slips in and out of consciousness, and every so often she thumps her fist roughly on the back of Merle's seat, an unexplained yet understood signal.

_Hurry up_.

She can't help but think of the group. And it terrifies her. There's a hole in her head and she feels deja vu kicking in sharply, sleep, exhaustion, lack of food and stress accumulating with the three's shared fear to bundle in her stomach uncomfortably. Daryl doesn't say anything, and from time to time Merle mutters about an officer, the man she only suspect to be the one to handcuff him to the roof. All that time ago.

She's terrified of this unknown man. This black shadow in her mind with a stone cold face and a heavy hand of justice. She can only imagine what Merle _might _of done to be handcuffed, but it makes her sick. _Physically ill, _to see the disfigurement and realise it was made by another human, another survivor. The man they're going to see right now.

Of course this is Daryl's group just as much as it is that Officers, so thoughts keep a constant whirlwind in her mind and she feels a headache coming on from the thought. Would she stay with the man that cut off Derrick's hand? With that group?

It's simple. No.

_Desperate times call for desperate measures, _and if the end of the world wasn't desperate enough circumstances she isn't entirely sure what is. She shouldn't make assumptions, she knows that, especially if this group is going to be meeting them unwilling or otherwise in a few minutes - but she can't help it. There's so many shades of grey and she wants to focus on the black and the white.

_But it's all static._

"We're here" Merle's voice is cautious from the front seat, and she can feel the van slowly down, the cold metal under her thighs. She hears him put it in a different gear - manual car - and stands to her feet, shaky with the moving floor under her. She places her chin on the harsh fabric of the seats and looks out the window to the upcoming Prison.

The walls are high, metal chain-link, cold and unforgiving. They stand high in the open field, the woods opening up to the compound, and she follows the gates around to find the main entrance. And a group of survivors standing there.

She sits down automatically, breathing heavily and pressing her hands against the divider. It's another full minute before the van rolls to a complete stop, and now she notices the growls of Biters outside the walls of the vehicle and a slice of panic wedges into her chest.

_What if they don't open the gates?_

"Stay in 'ere," Merle calls over his shoulder, grabbing a gun from the passenger seat and loading it up expertly. She can hear the rounds clicking into place and Daryl protesting, before Merle jumps out and slams the van door shut, the fresh air breeze cut off as soon as it hit them. The gun explodes with noise as soon as he leaves the view of the window, and the growls of Biters around them drops. He's not stupid, although Daryl continuously swears under his breath about the noise, and Merle starts shouting - starts_ discussing_ - the exact words undecipherable.

She hears voices pick up at the sight of him, angry and vicious, yelling and swearing, and she musters up some courage to stare through the divider to watch the interaction. Alana can't hear them well, only the noises and the tones, but it's easy to see they're not happy at the sight of the older Dixon; guns raised and lips snarling. The atmosphere heats up despite the clouds rolling over the grey sky, and for a few seconds she can ignore the lone growls around the van and instead focuses on the discussion.

There's an obvious authority figure in the Prison, hair slick and jaw strong. She can't see any defining features, or a cruel demeanour and the image of the black shadow in her mind is obliterated before she refers back to it; lost. The image of the group in front of her now is frozen solid and her eyes flicker uneasily over the man, _the officer, _and the younger male at his side, a black eye swarming the right side of his face. There's also a young woman, standing three steps back but legs shifted into a strong stance, and another dark-skinned woman beside the _leader._

She doesn't notices the young boya few metres back, but if she had, she doesn't expect it would have changed her initial reaction to the group. Terrified. They're strong, determined_ - _she takes a look at Merle's missing hand - _vicious, cruel?_

There's shuffling behind her, and she tears her eyes off of the two bickering groups to the back of the van, where Daryl has unceremoniously stumbled and is fumbling with the latch on the inside of the back door.

"What are you doing?!"

Daryl snorts impatiently, then swears at the lock and leans against it slightly, obviously trying to fight off any resistance he feels with his wound. He hasn't been recovering, she realises with a start, he's getting better at covering himself up. And the thought runs through her like cold water.

_Desperate times. Desperate measures._

"My brother aint exactly the best a' explain' shit" he grunts over his shoulder. She doesn't want to be left in the van, alone, she doesn't want to leave either, and her feet are moving her forward, gently pushing the man to the side and calmly opening the door. She's already planning out the route ahead of her, how to get to the safety of Merle's gun range in the smallest amount of time possible, because she's going to have her arms full carrying the injured and yet still pride-full Daryl, who seems to be having trouble holding up _his own gun. _

She's not too worried, _not about that side of things. _The dead she can handle. It's the living she has trouble with.

The latches undoes without too much trouble, and the sun hits them both with a force that leaves them blind for a few second. The closest Biter is still a far distance away, and with a quick scan of the sides, she jumps down unto the field, turning back to help Daryl. He shoves away her hands at first, but loses his balance and she finds herself supporting him fully as he remains unsteady on his feet. She wraps one arm around his chest, her free hand going to her gun - not entirely sure how much help it could possibly be - and together they shuffle around the corner, ignoring the van and the backpacks and the _pure fear running through her._

The ground is a bright green, a shade she hasn't seen in a few weeks. She can hear a creek, the wind flittering through the leaves of the woods and birds calling distressed, from branch to branch. The sky - in her opinion - is beautiful. Not a blue, a grey. A grey that reminds her of the ocean and makes her heart ache with a lone longing of a girl far from home. Daryl's breathing is heavy, weight slippery in her fingers, and they slowly walk towards the gates and Merle and judgment.

It hasn't passed through her mind that they could take in Daryl and throw her and Merle out. They have reasons. An enemy and a stranger versus an adopted family member? But it seems unthinkable. Daryl can't leave Merle, and Merle isn't going to let her leave yet, he's hanging this _entire situation _on her neck.

The group notice immediately. It's hard not to. And the shouting ceases, gets choked on, smothering them. The air gets heavy to breath in, as if the entire Prison has settled on her chest. Her fists bundles up in Daryl's shirt with fear, eyes flickering to Merle - standing so tall and so far away - and the Biters slowly making their way closer to them. The group inside the gates don't say a word, eyes trained to their newly found member, confusion and relief so adamantly evident on their faces.

Alana doesn't have time to scream.

Daryl doesn't have time to protest.

Merle doesn't have time to act.

The leader, _the officer_, raises one hand, arm long, straight and controlled. It's easier to see his features up close, a strong jaw, gruff beginnings of a beard and deep-set blue eyes. The gun he raises is silver, steady and surprisingly clean. It's pointed straight in her direction.

And it fires without warning.

* * *

**Thoughts? :) **


End file.
